#1 keeper for all but the first of those

[trustherkindheart]

I respect the hell out of Naeher for making the choice to step down now. She obviously doesn't see herself making it to 2027 at the same level - or realistically wanting to go through that again. With no clear successor the US needs all the time she can give them to find her replacement. This is a selfless decision on her part to bow out at the right time for the team. She's also leaving on a high note after an absolutely lights out gold medal winning performance and I can't fault her for that.

However I am still going to miss her on this team like crazy 😭💔. Thank you Alyssa for 3 world cups, 3 olympics, and 7 SheBelieves we owe you so much ❤️💙❤️💙

[just-some-random-blogger]

Tormented Spirit | 2

Part 1 2 3

"Is it such a sin to stand up for yourself?" you mutter as tears blur your vision. The way he reacted was visceral, instinctive even. "You never have to stand up for yourself ever again," says Daemon, reaching a hand to you, "come."

Daemon Targaryen x Hightower!Reader | 4k+ | cw: fem!reader, reader has brown hair, wife!reader, twin!Gwayne, arranged/forced marriage, canon divergence, alternate universe, smut (piv, loss of virginity, fingering, semi-public sex, Daemon talking you through it), DD:DNE, panic/anxiety attacks, daddy issues/child abuse/family problems, mentions/depictions of mental/physical/psychosomatic illness, mentions/depictions of death/suicidal ideation/murder, ye old misogyny, angst, typos, etc.

A/N: i am surprised I got as many comments as I did on chapter 1 🥺🫶 it's not that I think my writing is bad... Well... Idk it felt aimless when I started so I am grateful for the positive reinforcement. 👉👈 I am once again asking for more pls comment n reblog I would love u forever if u did | cross posted on ao3

Tagging: @arabellasleopardcoat

Daemon heads to your chambers, eager to shake you awake and ruin your morning once more. When he arrives to the room, he stops in his tracks, disappointed to see you were risen. That is, until he realizes the state you were in.

You roused long before the sun had and could not find sleep no matter how badly you searched. You decided to draw yourself a warm bath in hopes of finding sleep in the tub; you only find more restlessness and simply accept your fate.

You hear Daemon's entrance and turn to him from the vanity you were wallowing. You were half dressed. Your corset was undone and you had given up on braiding the sides of your head. You smile weakly at him, "good morrow."

Nothing about your tired, sullen eyes agreed with that, and it irritates him to know that you're one of those people. Pretenders.

"Well, finish up then," Daemon furrows his brows, "get dressed. We have yet to accomplish our task."

You mimic his expression, brushing your dark hair back, "task?"

He rolls his eyes, "I do not believe yesterday counts as an introduction."

Upon realizing he meant the introduction to Caraxes, your body tenses. You look sick. You stand to try and convince him out of it, but Daemon reaches you before you can get on your feet. He places a hand on your shoulder, keeping you in place. Your heart thunders when he brushes your hair to one shoulder. He secures your dress from behind, and your breath grows heavy as you watch him from the mirror.

"It is not so bad, riding a dragon," the prince says to plant a false sense of trust in you, "who knows? You might enjoy it."

There is an unnatural warmth that spills across your form when your husband then completes your braids. He weaves in a manner far gentler than Gwayne ever has. It makes your lips part.

He brings you to your feet. Daemon takes in your expression, lips curling slightly, "there you are, wife."

Your brows knit.

He knew his artificial gentleness has you off-guard. There is no better moment to have you do his bidding than now.

One might be surprised to know that Caraxes actually enjoyed having you on his back, as did Daemon, not because they suddenly liked you— gods no, but because the sound of your screams were oh-so satisfying.

You could do little else but release cries of terror as you clung to your husband from behind. Daemon made it a point to do flips and all sorts of unnecessarily moves whilst flying, hoping your hold would falter. The time you spent in the air felt like eternity. It seemed your husband was set on touring the entire 7 realms.

You never thought you would be so ever happy to see the pit. The pit could not say the same about you however. You spill your guts out to the floor exactly like the first time you were here.

Daemon makes a face. He turns to the keepers and orders them to clean your mess up, lest it get on Caraxes' claw.

Woe is you who is forced to repeat the exact thing the next morning. You could not even plead your case, for your throat was sore. The sound of your screams this time were not as entertaining to Daemon, as your voice is hoarse. At some point, the terror is too great, you cannot scream. Because of this, he cuts the flight short in boredom, excited instead at the promise of watching you suffer through another retch. But, oh, by the gods, were you an inconveniencing woman.

Instead of remaining consistent, you just had to make a show and faint into him, did you?

He could not care less for you, which is why he chucks you off into the arms of a dragon keeper, but the damned old man could no longer carry such a weight, and so he was begrudgingly forced to throw you over his shoulder and bring you to a maester himself.

In truth, he'd all forgotten about his wife fainting until the next morning, when he came to the maester's quarters to ask for something to soothe his hammering head from his heavy drinking the night before. He was, in fact, offended, when the maester insinuated that he had come to check up on his bride.

Before he could give the greying maester a piece of his mind, he hears a terrible voice barking from the ward. Its grating timbre made it clear to Daemon that Lord Hand Cunttower was off on a yapping session again.

He walks deeper into the room. Weeping sounds become audible.

"—no, you do not understand," Otto snaps, hunched over at the side of your bed.

Ah, twas you who was being terrorized.

You dare not turn to your father, for you knew your throat would only tighten more that it already has. You force yourself to take deep breaths, but it's easier said than done. You remain still on the bed you laid on.

"You must sire as many children as your body can take, or you will die," the man says.

But you were dying anyway.

"The process will not be pleasant."

Nothing is pleasant.

"It will hurt-"

Everything hurts.

"-but it is a better fate than-"

"Enough!" you snap, glaring at him with angry, red eyes. You repeat, though your voice is weaker, "enough, enough, eno-"

Otto gravely speaks your name. Your body recognized the danger, but having realized upon waking up to the face of a maester, it mattered little where or who it came from, you were destined to hurt- to die.

"Do not fall complacent be-"

"You are no longer my lord," you quip. Sweat forms on your nape. This is the first time you've ever interrupted your father.

He is gobsmacked. He is bewildered. His back straightens, "what?"

You feel yourself descend into heavy fraught. Your saliva tries to choke you.

"What," he presses, "did you say, girl?"

"You are my father," your voice falters, "but not my lord."

Otto's face warps.

Your breath grows shorter and shorter, "my liege lord is my-" pant "-husband, and what he-" pant "-desires, I will-" pant "-do."

Daemon's ears and brows perk at your misplaced loyalty. Part of him wants to laugh out loud and make himself known, but then he sees, even from where he stood, how it got Otto twisted. He chuckles to himself instead.

Your father enunciates as though he means to stab you with them, "you stupid fucking whore."

You crumble like chalk. You fall into another round of body arresting tremors. Your chest is tight and you screw your eyes painfully shut. It becomes apparent to Daemon, as it would anyone who'd witness, where your condition sourced. Otto grabs your shoulders, "you know nothing of-" but then recoils.

Daemon shoves him away, glaring as he says, "unhand her."

Otto manages to balance himself, but he looks as though the veins on his temples were about to pop. He clenches his jaw, "I am speaking to my daughter."

"You mean at her," his silver hair slips over his shoulder as he turns to you, "she does not look like she can hold conversation."

"This is personal matter," Otto steps forward.

"Mmm," Daemon turns back to him, "I do say, I am glad to have interrupted," he shifts on his leg, linking his fingers together, "a dutiful husband should know all personal matters of his wife. Don't you agree?"

Though you were still wrestling with yourself, you heard every word. You knew if you did not interject, they will fight each other for your carcass. You feel lightheaded, but you force yourself to open your eyes and speak.

Of course, the only sound you manage to make is a strangled and pained one.

Otto averts his attention to you, and tries to come to your side.

Daemon steps in front of him and tilts his head back, "oh... I would adore it if you give me a reason to kill you."

You choke out, "Daemon."

Your father stiffens as he looks past the said man to inspect you, missing the way the said man smirks. Otto turns back to Daemon, feeling bile spread in his mouth as the prince says, "see. She does not want you."

Otto's lips curl and his hands ball into fists.

Your husband waves a hand, "go away. You're clearly upsetting her."

Otto does the most to remain calm, "she is my da-"

"She is my wife," Daemon snaps, imposing upon him.

You gulp with difficulty as you catch the way your father's jaw clenches. You force yourself to sit up and open your mouth to speak, but everyone's attention is averted to the Kingsguard that walks into the room.

Daemon's forehead curls at the Cargyll knight, "my prince. Lord Hand."

"Which one are you?" asks the prince.

"Arryk, my prince."

"State your business, Arryk."

"I-"

"I requested a ward for the princess," Lord Hand answers instead.

Daemon makes a face at him and chuckles dryly under his breath.

Arryk looks between the two again then slowly continues, "I and my brother have been awarded the honor of serving ward to the Princess of Dragonstone. I take first watch today."

Daemon chuckles again, "a bit late, aren't you?"

The white cloak stiffens then bows, "I was just given word this hour."

"Hmm. Well, Arryk," he motions, "why don't you go escort the Lord Hand out of the room before someone dies."

He stiffens again, but turns to the said man nonetheless. He does not question it and merely does what was instructed.

Or at least tries to.

"I do not trust you with my daughter's well-being," Otto steps forward, pointing a finger to the ground, "you are the very reason she is in that bed."

Daemon gasps dramatically. At this point, you finally had enough wits about you to speak, "please-" but your voice is easily drowned out however.

"Do you not remember thanking my brother for the, what was it," the prince pretends to think, "joyous union? Or would you like to watch me stake my claim upon he—"

Otto's face twists in horror and repulsion, but that is not why Daemon's words are cut short. It is because of the cold, clammy, trembling hand that takes his own that he looks down. He watches as you sigh out, "leave us, father."

The said man turns to you in grave offence. In your fear, you do not notice the betrayal that is mixed with it. His anger flares and he scoffs. He gives you one last look, and you knew exactly it was just that. This would be last time he would ever look upon you. When he storms away, you feel it in your chest: this is the last time you will ever call him father. You were forsaken, truly forsaken.

Otto is seen out by Arryk.

Your hand slips from Daemon's, as you no longer had the strength. You muster all your remaining energy to reach the drink propped on your bedside table. It was a futile attempt though, as instead of grasping it, you knock it over, which only leads you into another fit of tears.

Daemon curses and shakes his foot that's gotten soaked. He did mean to snap at you for it, but you were already clearly suffering. Your breathing is short and it seemed like you were mumbling something.

He hunches over in an attempt to hear you, "what?"

It takes a myriad of repetitions for him to realize you were apologizing.

His face contorts, "gods," what pathetic creature had he been given to?

Daemon's upper lip curls and he can no longer bear the sound of your whining any further. He calls for the maester, asking for another cup of water because you had knocked over your own. Just as the maester goes off to get you another drink, he remembers he came here for his own affliction because his head begins to hammer again. He rubs his temples and sits on the vacant bed besides yours.

"Here, my prince," the maester says upon arrival, "milk of the poppy enough for the both of you."

Daemon squints as the man places a tray on your bedside table. Daemon is handed a cup first, but does not drink it until after he watches you be helped to drink your own fill. After, the maester promptly leaves with a curt nod. The drink does not take effect on you until after Daemon finishes his own

Your voice shakes, "t-thank you."

Daemon puts his cup down.

"You did not have to come," you say softly.

"Do not flatter yourself," he scoffs, "I did not come for you. I came for my headache."

"Yet it remains," you turn to him, face tight and gleaming from all the tears you've shed, "you did not have to come."

He stares at you for a moment. You looked so frail, so devoid of hope. Truly, death would be mercy to you at this point.

Just then, ser Arryk returns. He finally sees you and gives you a deep bow, "princess."

Being addressed as such makes you feel sad... and lonely.

"I am ser Arryk Cargyll. I will be your ward, along with my twin brother, Erryk, who you will meet after my shift." The kingsguard straightens up, "I will do all that I can to ensure your health does not falter and that you are always seen to."

You think of your own twin as you take in the man's features. The idea that your father purposefully chose twin brothers as your ward made you feel sad and sick, but it was hardly Arryk's fault Otto liked mocking you, so you smile at him, "I have a twin."

The man nods, offering you a smile far more genuine than yours, "aye. Ser Gwayne Hightower. He is deft with the short sword."

You turn to your hands, recalling just a few days ago when you had watched him train. Your lips curl upwards, "though, not as good as I."

Daemon pulls his head back, face contorting. He is taken aback when Arryk's sniggers. The latter nods, "perhaps you will show me your tricks, my lady."

There is a twinkle in your eye as you turn back to him, "perhaps."

Daemon raises a brow at the interaction and decides to stand, "come," he reaches a hand to you, "some fresh air would do you good."

Fresh air? Your jaw slacks and you turn to Daemon with a fallen expression. Be as it was, you were no fool. You did not believe your husband had your best interest in mind, and yet, it was not like you had much of a choice. Against yourself, you to take his hand.

He pulls you up and Arryk comes to your side to assist you. He helps you to your feet, hand on your arm and shoulder.

Daemon is annoyed by his fussing. "Yes. Very good, Cargyll. I can manage to bring her to the dragon pit myself."

You close your eyes and sigh. Just as you dreaded.

"Dragon pit?" Arryk repeats.

"Yes. She needs fresh air." The prince narrows his eyes, "do you contest me?"

Arryk releases you and shakes his head, "I would not."

"Good," he motions with nod, "out of the way then."

You see, after being scorched by the fire of your maker— your father, the sight of Caraxes emerging from the depths did not strike as much fear into you as it did before. In fact, the promise of malice from the beast felt... cathartic, and for once, you welcomed Daemon's insistence on being brought to its maw.

You stumbled against Caraxes' scaly cheek. Having done nothing but lay in the maester's chambers, your hair was not tied or braided in any way. As the wind blew, it tickled against the dragon's face. Caraxes did not seem to enjoy the sensation, and so he growled and snapped his teeth.

Daemon was quick to chastise his mount, and for that, he did not realize your lack of self-preservation. Oh, but Caraxes did; he even growled again, only to be met once more by your unflinching demeanor.

Daemon would only realize your change after taking flight and landing on a beach. Upon dismounting, Caraxes takes it upon himself to screech as you hover. The prince doesn't know who is more bewildered, him or his dragon, when you screech back.

Your neck veins pop and spit comes out of your mouth at the intensity of it all. A harsh wind blows your hair and your skirt. You heave after releasing such a harsh noise.

In truth, perhaps Caraxes is more perturbed as, unlike Daemon's who presses forward, the beast pulls back and shakes his head. He bleats as he watches his rider grab your arm.

The prince means to berate you for your insanity, but then, gods, you rather conveniently succumb to another arrest to your heart and lungs. He does not know why he catches you when your legs give in but he knows exactly why he suggests: "get in the water."

You look up at him, your glassy eyes meeting his violet ones.

He lets you crumble to the ground and bends down to undo your dress, "a swim would do you wonders."

"N-no- you will regret-" you sputter.

But Daemon ignores you, not that it took much effort, for you were incoherent soon enough.

He pulls you out of your dress until you're in nothing but your slip. You sob, and he hushes you, assuring he will be by your side. He removes his tunic. Soon, he is dragging you down deeper and deeper, and you are choking and spitting saltwater.

Daemon decides to simply release you and wait until your body floats lifeless. With how you were gasping, it would not take long. He turns his head when his face is splashed by your flailing arms. When he looks back, the water is calm and your body is nowhere to be seen.

... well, that was rather quick.

He waits for a moment, watching bubbles float up. After a while, he purses his lips and decides to go back ashore. He should have done this sooner.

He freezes when you emerge in front of him, pushing your brown hair off your face. He is perturbed by the serenity across your features; it was as though you were reborn.

You sigh, "I told you you would regret it."

Daemon blankly stares at you.

"There is a great river in Oldtown," you wade around, "the water there is not nearly as pleasant or warm as this, but still... swimming was one of the only ways I could calm myself."

His jaw clenches. He does not even try to hide his disappointment.

You lick your lips at it and turn to Caraxes, who was happily soaking in the sun from the sandy shore, "take heart. Your dragon might entertain himself by eating me yet," you turn to him, "or perhaps my Lord Hand will kill me himself."

His face twists, "what?"

You shake your head and roll your eyes.

He pulls his head back, offended and confused by your sudden nerve.

You allow your body to float up in the water, "you need not pretend. I know you long to kill me."

Daemon is insulted by your brashness. He grabs your floating hip and pushes you down until you're once again face to face. Not a semblance of fear is on your features. It only angers him further.

He snaps, "I could have your tongue for that."

He cannot deny the way his stomach rolls when you place your hands by the base of his neck. The complete change in your temperament puts him on edge. Have you been playing him all along?

"Would it not be simpler to have my head?" you speak plainly, as though you were genuinely curious of his response.

His nostrils flare.

Before he can act, you are swimming off. You emerge from the water, dripping wet. Your clothing is sheer and hugs every part of your body, leaving nothing to the imagination. He could not help but look, but then he was sorely insulted all over when you pet Caraxes head and he lets you.

It was a twisted hallucination. He is suddenly reminded of the milk of the poppy he'd drank; you've probably poisoned him and planned all of this with your cunt father like the conniving whore you really were.

You do not hear him emerge, but only know he did because he is upon you. He forces you around through a severe squeeze on your arms, "what is your game, Hightower cunt?!"

Your body seizes, but you do not succumb to the thundering of your heart, as you had just been relaxed.

He shakes you, making you gasp, "SPEAK!"

"There is no game!" you whimper.

He chuckles dryly, shaking you harshly once more "perhaps it should be said that I need no assistance from my dragon to kill you."

A shiver runs down your spine, "please-"

"Then tell me th-"

"-just do it."

The sound of Caraxes huffing brings Daemon back to reality. And yet it takes you speaking, "just kill me," for him to realize you meant exactly what he thought.

He stills where you descend into further torment. He knows then that it is true. There was no plot, or at least not one where this creature of agony could ever oversee. You were calmed by the water, but not cured. Very truly, he thinks again death would be mercy, convenient for him as well. Yet, in his nature, Daemon does opposite of what he is told and pries his hands off. He mutters under his breath, "ao mūdas run," you terrible thing.

You sob, as if you understood him.

You shed tears unlike the others he's witnessed; there is no panic or fear, only pain.

"Surely you agree it is better than living this way."

The clarity of your voice takes him aback. He turns away, uncomfortable of your sudden agency.

"I have been this way since I can remember," you confess, "and they've all have counted my days for just as long."

"Why must I bloody my hands for you?" he squints, "if you despise living so much, do it yourself."

Your laugh is haunting. You shake your head and wipe your face, "I am not as brave as you. I could not even kill the fishes Gwayne caught for me, though I ate them."

Daemon is unmoved, twice so at the mention of your brother.

"And Gwayne..." you sigh, "he would blame himself." You turn to your feet, warmed by the sand beneath it, "I would not do that to him." You shake your head again, "but again, take heart," you smile, "it will happen soon enough."

His forehead curls.

"I can feel it in my gut," you rub your belly, "it is putrid and festering... whatever it is."

He tilts his head, "then do me a favor and wallow in silence—" he walks off, sparing one last glance, "and try scheming with your cunt father somewhere you will not be caught."

You manically laugh and rip at your hair, "he is my illness, if it is not plain to you."

He stops and turns back to you.

"I am the way that I am because I-" you poke your chest, "am he, had he been born a woman." You rub your sternum, "he loathes me because he is I. I am his hair, his nose, his temper, his... weakness, only amplified because I did not inherit his cock.

"When I pray..." you sniffle, "sometimes I think the gods keep me alive for I am his reckoning— that I must torment him for all the years he has tormented others... tormented me."

Daemon watches the salt from your eyes join the salt on your slip. He stares at your pert nipples then watches you chew your lower lip. He licks his own, "did you mean what you told him?"

You watch as he inches closer, "what?"

"That he is no longer your liege lord," he reaches for your arm, "that I am."

"I-"

Daemon pushes the shoulder of your slip dress down.

Your hand darts to his chest, "i-it is the truth."

He hums and tilts his head. You gasp when he kisses your neck. He licks the saltwater off your skin, enjoying the sound you make when his teeth graze you, "very well then."

Goosebumps form when he pulls your skirt up your thighs.

"It would be beneath a prince to withhold aid for such a tormented spirit."

You do not speak for soon his mouth is claiming yours. It is not as horrid as you imagined it would be. You did not think someone who's shown nothing but aggression could behold you so tenderly. You shiver when he continues to rid you of your sopping clothes. When you break away for air, you manage to mutter, "someone c-could see."

Daemon's expression is changed as stares at you and pushes you to the ground. You gasp as you find yourself atop the garbs he already managed to remove. He undoes his breeches, "who? My dragon?"

You do not know if he means Caraxes.

"You are my wife," he drops to his knees, grabbing yours, "the sin lies with the looker," he pushes your legs apart, "not us."

You bite your lips, feeling the the need to repel him, but decide against it. You simply close your eyes and dig your fingers into the sand.

His loins burn at the sound of your sigh. He sinks into you and relishes your submission. He wraps your legs around him and rocks his hips into yours. You mewl and dig into his back. He bites your lobe before whispering, "you belong to me."

You scratch your nails up his back as his rocking hips send bolts of pleasure in your body.

"Say it."

"I-I-" you heave, "belong to you."

He squeezes your thighs, "you are to do what I so desire."

You gasp softly when he grabs your jaw, making you turn to him.

"-especially if it is against your father, yes?"

You gulp, unable to speak. You simply nod.

Daemon's eyes become hooded. He releases your jaw, claiming your thigh again, "good."

You both remain this way, kissing and rubbing, but then you begin to grow impatient. You bring your mouth to his to catch his attention but do not kiss him. He is taken aback by your unintentional tease and digs his fingers into your flesh. This is why you whimper as you speak, "you- can... enter."

He is broken from his trance, "what?"

"I," you scratch his skin gently, as if to encourage him, "know you are ready. You do not have to hold back. I am accustomed to pain."

He knits his brows, then tilts his head, "how could a virgin know such things?"

He watches bashfulness claim you. You shake your head, "I read it."

"Did your book not tell you it need not be painful?"

"I-" you let out a loud noise when you feel his fingers touch your womanhood, "Daemon-"

He purrs at the sound of his name, "I will show you how good it can feel so that you can tell your father all about it."

The horrifying thought does not even register as he makes you feel things you did not know possible. You begin to shiver and whine, but it is entirely opposite to what your body is accustomed to. Your breath begins to shorten and you instinctively begin to panic, but Daemon's voice keeps you grounded.

"Breathe," he licks your pulse, "it feels good, does it not? Breathe and think of how good I'm making you feel."

You are entirely subservient to him, to his baritone, to his fingers, to his hips. There is nothing but sand and Daemon. You whine when you feel a hard intrusion. The sensation is foreign, and it causes your belly to tense.

He kisses the line that forms between your brows, "relax, my wife. Now is not the time for pain," he hooks his hands behind your knees, "it's a time for pleasure."

It's all a blurry haze after this. Daemon moves into you in a way that makes you wonder how this could ever hurt. Every thrust sends ripples of bliss down your spine. Every hit draws out the lewdest of sounds from your throat. You understand then why they call it love making; you love every moment of it. Your bliss is heightened when he touches something inside you, and again, and again-

For once in your life, as your breath grows heavy, you do not feel like you're about to die.

Daemon alternates tempos, but ultimately resigns to fast and hard. He does not cease until your rigid body goes limp beneath him. The pressure in your stomach breaks into a million burning pieces, and just as it becomes all too much, he pulls out, propping himself up on one arm. You gasp at the heat thats spills on your thigh as he strokes himself. Soon, his arm gives out and he collapses beside you.

You behold the mess of red and white between your legs, but find no shame, only arousal, which you did not expect. You turn to your husband, watching his chest heave, his temples sweat, and his tongue lick his lips.

He's... he's beautiful.

[celestial-sphere-press]

Book Decoration: AKA All The Ways I Don't Use a Cricut

(this post is for people who don't want to buy an expensive cutting tool, or for those that do have an expensive cutting tool that would like to mix things up a little)

1. Print That Shit

If you're already printing your own textblocks, an easy step for titles is to print them. Above is a title printed onto an "obi" of decorative paper. I measured out where I wanted things on the finished book and laid it out in Affinity, then printed it on a full sheet & trimmed it down to wrap around the book. A more simple method is to print & glue on the label into a slight indent in the cover (to protect it). A third option is to do the spine in bookcloth, while you print on paper for the cover and then glue that paper onto the boards (this usually looks even better when it is a three-piece bradel bind).

2. Foil Quill / Heat Pens

The heat pen is one of my go-to tools, but it can be a bit touchy about materials. The most popular version is the We R Memory Keepers' Foil Quill (which is one of the most ergonomic), but other pens exist that can get you to a higher heat temp, finer lines, or more consistent foil. For example, I have a pen created by a local Japanese bookbinding studio that fares way better on leathers than the WRMK quill & with a finer tip, but it's hell to control. Best results in general are on paper or smooth bookcloth (starched linen, arrestox, colibri - even duo will work but its less solid). The fuzzier a bookcloth is, the less your foil quill wants to deal with it. This means the heat n bond method of making bookcloth does not play nice with a heat pen usually, but there are two solutions: 1) use this tutorial on paste + acrylic medium coated bookcloth instead that will get you a perfect surface for the heat pen, or 2) use the pen on paper & then glue onto the cloth. I did a video tutorial for both foil quill use and this type of homemade bookcloth for @renegadeguild Binderary in 2023.

You get the most consistent results by tracing through a printed template that is taped in place, as I do in the video above.

3. Paint That Shit

Acrylic paints will do you fine! The above is free-handed with a circle template, because I wanted that vibe. If you need straight lines that won't seep, lay them down with tape first & then paint over it first with a clear Acrylic medium, then your color. Same goes for stencils. Two more examples of painted bookcloth:

4. IT'S GOT LAYERS

By using layers of thinner boards, you can create interesting depths & contrasts on your cover. You can also make cutouts that peep through to the decorative paper behind. The most important part to this technique is the order in which each edge is wrapped. To get a good wrapped inside edge, you will split the turn in into tabs to get them to conform to a curve. You can also layer multiple colors of bookcloth without multiple layers of board, as seen below left, so long as you mind your cut edges for fraying.

5. Inlaid... anything

Mirrors! Marbled paper! I saw someone do a pretty metal bookmark once! The key is creating a little home for it to live in, which is pretty similar to the above layering method. On one layer you cut the shape, & glue that layer onto the bottom solid board before covering. You can do the top layer as an entire 1 mm board (like I did for the mirrors) or a sheet of cardstock, like I would use for inlaid paper.

6. Decorative Paper

Decorative paper is always helpful & adds to the paper hoard... & its effects can be layers with other techniques, as below. Marbles, chiyogami, momi, or prints & maps of all kinds can be great additions. Some papers may need a protective coating (such as wax or a sealer).

7. Stamps (with optional linocut)

While I've not used many more regular rubber stamps, I do know some who have, successfully! And I've used one once or twice with embossing powder (see photo 3 up, the gold anchor on the little pamphlet bind). What also works is to carve your own linocut or stamp, & then use block printing ink to ink it onto your fabric (as i did above). A bit time intensive, but it was nice how easily reproducible it was, and I liked the effect I got for this particular bind.

These methods are not exhaustive, just ones I've used, and there are of course many others. I haven't gone too into detail on any of these for the sake of length (& post photo limits) but feel free to ask about more specifics. Usually I'm using them in combination with other options.

[blasphemousclaw]

why Divine Beast Dancing Lion has the best soundtrack in the entire game

When I watched the first DLC trailer 6 months ago, I was so focused on Messmer that I never gave the lion dancers a second thought. But in a shocking turn of events, Divine Beast Dancing Lion is now my favorite boss in the whole game. To me, what makes this fight truly exceptional is its soundtrack, so I want to go through the music and outline all the things that make it so great!

What makes the music stand out is that it feels SO different from the rest of the OST… the majority of the boss tracks have a pretty similar style and instrumentation, but Divine Beast stands out in my opinion because of how it emphasizes its rhythm and texture.

Conceptually, this boss fight is first and foremost a dance — you are fighting two Hornsent warriors operating a lion costume based on the traditional Chinese lion dance in an arena that’s actually a giant stage.

The Chinese lion dance is typically accompanied only by percussion (drums, gongs, and cymbals). So naturally, Divine Beast’s soundtrack has much more pronounced percussion in comparison to the rest of the soundtrack, featuring heavy drum beats and cymbals, plus shouts and chants from the choir. The music is in a steady 6/8, with 2 beats per measure divided into three pulses (think 1 2 3, 1 2 3) giving it a lilting, dancelike quality (this type of meter is often used in folk and traditional dances!). And, in the boss’s second phase, the dancing lion’s lightning, wind, and frost phases each have their own music and are timed to transition as the music transitions. The whole boss fight is programmed like a dance, so when you fight the boss it feels like you’re dancing with it too!

The choir has a range of vocalizations that goes beyond singing melodies and harmonies; as I touched on before, they’re also shouting and chanting. The shouts are used percussively and help accent the rhythm of the dance, and the low chanting also brings to mind a sort of religious ritual? Which is exactly what this boss fight is… in Hornsent culture, the lion dance is a ritual for invoking divinity:

“A charm depicting the crazed, cavorting dance of the divine beast conducted at the tower festival. Raises potency of storms. Divine beasts are messengers of the heavens, and their rage mirrors the tumult of the skies, of which storms are the pinnacle.” (Enraged Divine Beast talisman)

The lion dancers, or “sculpted keepers,” are those amongst the divine beast warriors (themselves the chosen amongst the tower’s horned warriors) who truly excelled at divine invocation, and were “granted the honor of the lion dance” (Divine Beast Warrior Armor). In the boss cutscene, the Hornsent Grandam calls upon the divine beast to possess the bodies of the sculpted keepers, and rise again to defend the tower… so the lion dance, performed by warriors skilled in divine invocation, is essentially a ritual for invoking the presence of the divine beast within the dancers in order to commune with the heavens.

The sculpted keepers, having invoked the rage of the divine beast, are able to channel the forces of the stormy skies — lightning, wind, and frost. The force of the storm is represented in the music by quick runs in the high woodwinds and strings that come and go like gusts of wind. The music almost never lets up or loses momentum; it goes at a powerful, furious pace until the end, embodying the divine beast’s fury.

But the Divine Beast that we fight has an extra layer of emotion that goes beyond divine ritual:

“When the Impaler's army assailed the tower, the ritual of the lion dance was turned toward martial ends—its divinity, its fury, its light-footed beauty.” (Remembrance of the Dancing Lion)

What was once a beautiful ritual dance conducted at the tower festival was forced to become a weapon of war in order to fight against their people’s annihilation at the hands of Messmer’s crusade. And even this was not enough…

The Dancing Lion that we fight was slain, lying in a pool of dried blood, when it is miraculously awoken again with a fervent prayer. This is the last lion dance that may ever take place, giving us a mere glimpse of this ruined city’s long-vanished splendor.

Listening to the soundtrack, there is not only pride in the music, but also an urgent, visceral, warlike rage, a multitude of voices joining in a desperate fight for their civilization’s very survival.

[pome-seed]

The Soldier's Keeper ★ 1

Pairing: Winter Soldier!Bucky x Doctor!Reader

Word Count: 1.6k

Summary: A doctor, taken from your lab where you study degenerative muscular diseases, find yourself trapped and charged with caring for a living weapon. Terrified for yours and your family's safety, you must work to appease your captors and care for a man who seems haunted beyond words. And as time goes on, you begin to learn just how human the man really is.

Warnings: Mentions of kidnapping, fear, weapons, and death.

Authors Note: Hi! This is the first chapter of a very very long series. (basically the prequal of the soldat story I posted) I'm a little nervous doing this, but I thought it would be fun. I'd also like to say, I tried to do my best writing a woman who is terrified- so that includes a good amount of nervous stuttering and rambling in the first chapter. Bear with me! Please enjoy, comment if you'd like and let me know what you think! And please be kind!

Series Masterlist Next Chapter

The door slammed behind you with a shudder, making you jump. It was dark. Quiet. Silent, even. The silence that followed made your pulse jump. Your gaze fell upon your charge. It couldn’t be real. It just couldn’t be. You felt glued to the floor, your nerves screaming at you to run, to hide, to close your eyes and pretend none of this was real.

But you couldn’t. 

You had no choice. 

Getting to choose was a luxury, one you weren’t allowed.

The large contraption of metal claws and tangled wires wasn’t what first caught your eye in the room. It was the man. Just a man. Unmoving and unspeaking. He sat on a black bench, made to restrain and recline. His long dark hair hung in his eyes, but his gaze stayed pinned to the floor. 

You knew who he was. You wished you didn’t. 

Hydra wasn’t an entity you wanted to be aligned with. Hydra wasn’t even something you were aware was still around until weeks ago. You were just a woman. A doctor. A scientist. A bright mind with many questions and a burning need to find purpose. 

But you bore the burden of knowledge. Of curiosity. 

You were determined to find the answer to deteriorating muscular disease. You were drawn to the topic from a young age, watching classmates and strangers alike die out from disease. Lose their ability to move, to function, to live. 

You spent your life studying it. 

And it only took seconds for you to regret it. 

Here you were now, tasked with caring for a man forced to live through time and death. A man you knew nothing of a mere month ago.

You slid a hesitant foot forward, your flat scraping the stone floor. Silence stretched, only broken by the friction of your shoe. He hadn’t moved. You held your breath, forcing another step forward. Your stomach turned as you drew closer. You held your shaking fists to your chest, trying to convince yourself  you weren't as scared as you were. 

Why were you so scared, damn it? He was just a man. But then again, men were always God's most brutal creation. And this man, he was different. 

Hydra’s officials spent those first few days briefly informing you about the man, and his condition- between threats to your life and family.

They told you of the broken creature that was the winter soldier. The man whose mind had become nothing more than a button of yes and no. Kill or be killed. They told you of how he could pull your spine from your back with his hands tied and his eyes closed. Of how a single word put him in action. 

You knew he wouldn’t act unless commanded to, but that didn’t halt the fear. A loaded gun still held the reputation of death, even with its safety on.

You stood only a few feet away now. You saw him clearer now. You tried to take him in, humanise him, knowing that's all he was. But god, was it hard. The shadow across his face, caused by his hair, didn’t hide his dull blue eyes. They stared straight ahead, haunted and waiting.

“My…” your voice cracked against your will, exposing your fear. “My name is Y/n…” you spoke quietly, afraid if you were any louder, he would snap. He didn’t move. 

“I’m- I’m here to help you,” you whispered, standing before him now. “I’m a doctor, you see...” Your throat felt dry. Did your voice always sound like that? “They told me your muscles are- well, that the cryo sleep is- um-” you swallowed. Your tongue felt heavy. “They told me your muscles- the tissue is deteriorating. The cryo chamber is having unexpected side effects…” 

You watched him as you spoke. If you didn’t know better, you could almost guess he was still asleep. Or dead. “Can-” you tilted your head at him. “Can you hear me?” 

No response. Not even a twitch. With great hesitance, you knelt before him, your bare knees pressing into the plush carpet. You were lower than him now, but leveled enough. And still, it was like he was looking right through you. “You’re in there, aren’t you? I mean-” 

He blinked, just once. But it was enough. He didn’t even seem aware of it. His brows were furrowed together, his jaw screwed tight. A dark shadow of  a beard speckled his skin. His hair hung in his face, shielding him. 

“I’m- I’m here to tend to you.” You whispered. “I’ll be monitoring your vitals, and the state of your muscles. But-” you tilted your head. “They also want me to clean you up.” He was so still it was unsettling. You weren't surprised, he must be used to every type of needle and poke and prod in the book. 

You glanced back at the door, where a small tray sat atop a table. You took your time steadying yourself on shaky legs, retrieved the tray, then returned to your spot. You dragged a chair over and sat it on the seat. you stared at the man, your heart heavy in your chest.  

It was still dark, flickering light bulbs buzzing overhead. It was still quiet, your breaths sounding like screams. It was still deeply terrifying. But you needed to do as you were told. 

“They want me to shave your-” you gestured to your own face. “I know it's- well- I don’t know, but I don’t really get to say no, you know?” you stammered, your words failing you. You paused, then swallowed, allowing yourself to gather your bearings. “What I mean is- is it okay if I touch you?” 

Silence. 

Tense, thick, palpable silence. You bit back the fear rising in your chest as you reached a hand towards his face. “I’m sorry, I really am.” You whispered, pulling your hand back to pick through your tray. There wasn’t much. Just a bowl of water, a razor, a rag, and a cheap can of shaving cream. 

You had never shaved a man's face, but you’d shaved your legs about a thousand times. How different could they be? “Can you-” you swallowed. “Please, lift your head.” It felt wrong to touch him, to move him. He was so deeply human, sitting before you. It was sickening. After a long moment, he tilted his head back, bearing his throat.

You choked down the dramatic gasp that wanted to follow. His eyes were dull, staring straight through the space ahead. “Thank you,” you whispered, grabbing the rag. Having been unfamiliar with shaving like a man, you followed the steps you would on your own. You draped the rag across his lap and picked up the scissors. 

You spent the next few minutes in painful silence, snipping away long tufts of hair. You shook off the stray hairs onto the tray, then laid the rag back over his lap. After wetting his face, you used your fingers to smear shaving cream across his skin. Goosebumps rose over your arms as you did so, guilt and uncomfortability burrowing in your bones.

Holding a razor to the throat of one of the most dangerous men alive felt wrong. So deeply wrong. He stared straight ahead, unblinking as the blade scraped over the veins in his neck. His breath tickled your knuckles as you dragged the blade beneath his lips. He was like a doll, or a corpse. 

“I’ve never done this before, believe it or not.” You whispered. “I mean, I’ve shaved. Just- never shaved someone else, you know? It’s not something people often do.” You paused, asking him to tilt his head to the left. “Though, I’m guessing you’re pretty used to people doing things for you.” You paused. “Not in the privileged, type of way- I just mean, it’s pretty clear you don’t get to make a lot of choices for yourself…” you trailed off, then had him tilt to the right.

“I am sorry about that…” you whispered. “Having a choice, its- it’s the difference between being a thing, and being human. That’s how I’ve always seen it.” You washed off the razor, then continued. “I mean- I’m a woman, you know?” You laughed dryly, nerves making your tongue loose. “History is written by men taking choices away.”

The razor almost slipped from your fingers when his gaze flickered to yours. You couldn’t stop the gasp that time. You froze, the blade pressed to his cheek. “I’m really trying not to make you uneven right now.” You whispered, the nervous joke falling short. 

For the first time in what felt like the eternity you spent in that room, his lips parted. You held your breath, waiting to hear his voice.

The doors behind you swung open. You flinched, cold dread spreading down your spine. You yanked back the razor when you realized you nicked him. “I’m sorry,” you mouthed, wiping the cut with the rag. 

“Finished up yet? This isn’t a spa. We just need him clean.” It was an older man, a voice you recognised. 

“Yeah- yeah, I’m done.” You rushed, patting his face dry. You shoved everything back on the tray and scrambled to the side. You noticed the soldier go stalk still again, his gaze tracking the new man.

“Great. We need to get started, then.” The man- Pierce - started. His gaze found you. “You’re no longer needed.” The words sent a sickening fear pooling in your stomach, twisting and heavy- like it would rip right through you. A pair of men in suits approached you. “You’ll be summoned when we’re ready for you to start your treatments.”

You blinked. Hands circled your biceps. The tray was shoved into your hands. You were moving towards the door. you wanted to glance back, but your bones felt rusted shut. 

They weren’t going to kill you today. But how long would it last? How long would your value survive you?

Authors Note: Hi! Okay, sooo I hope you guys liked it, or at least feel a little intrigued. It gets a lot better further on, I have like 30 more chapters already written, so just let me know if you want more!

Also, this was originally written from a "she" Pov, so if you find any mistakes, let me know- I had to edit everything to say "You/your" after. Anyways, please comment and be kind!

[wisteria-lodge]

Manipulative/Morally Grey Dumbledore? An In-Depth Canon Analysis

So when I look at Harry Potter, my goal is to separate what I think the books are intending to say, from what they actually say, from what the movies say… and what the common fan interpretation is. So today I’m interested in Dumbledore, and specifically in the common headcanon of  Manipulative/Morally Gray Dumbledore. Is that (intentionally or unintentionally) supported by the text?

PART I:  Omniscient Dumbledore

“I think he knows more or less everything that goes on here”

In Book 1, yes Dumbledore honestly does seem to know everything. He 100% arranged for Harry to find the Mirror of Erised, publicly left Hogwarts in order to nudge Quirrell into going after the Stone, and knew what Quirrell was doing the whole time. It is absolutely not a stretch, and kind of heavily implied, that the reason the Stone’s protections feel like a little-end-of-the-year exam designed to put Harry through his paces… is because they are. As the series goes on this interpretation only gets more plausible, when we see the kind of protections people can put up when they don’t want anyone getting through. 

Book 1 Dumbledore knows everything… but what he’s actually going to do about it is anyone’s guess. One of the first things we learn is that some of Dumbledore’s calls can be… questionable. McGonagall questions his choice to leave Harry with the Dursleys, Hermione questions his choice to give Harry the Cloak and let him go after the Stone, Percy and Ron both matter-of-factly call him “mad.” The “nitwit, blubber, oddment, tweak” speech is a joke where Dumbledore says he’s going to say a few words, then literally does say a few (weird) words. I know there are theories that those particular words are supposed to be insulting the four houses, or referencing the Hogwarts house stereotypes, or that they’re some kind of warning. But within the text, this is pure Lewis Carroll British Nonsense Verse stuff (and people came up with answers to the impossible Alice in Wonderland “why is a raven like a writing desk” riddle too.) 

This characterization also explains a lot of Dumbledore’s decisions about how to run a school, locked in during Book 1. Presumably Binns, Peeves, Filch, Snape are all there because Dumbledore finds them funny, atmospheric, and/or character building. He's just kind of a weird guy.  He absolutely knew that Lockhart was a fraud in Book 2 (with that whole “Impaled upon your own sword, Gilderoy?” thing after Lockhart oblivates himself. ) So maybe he is also there to be funny/atmospheric/character building, or to teach Harry a lesson about fame, or because Dumbledore is using the cursed position to bump off people he doesn’t like. Who knows.

(I actually don’t think JKR had locked in “the DADA position is literally cursed by Voldemort” until Book 6. )

Dumbledore absolutely knows that Harry is listening in when Lucius Malfoy comes to take Hagrid to Azkaban, and it’s fun to speculate that maybe he let himself get fired in Book 2 as part of a larger plan to boot Lucius off the Board of Governors. So far, that’s the sort of thing he’d do.  But in Books 3 and 4, we are confronted with a number of important things that Dumbledore just missed. He doesn’t know any of the Marauders were animagi, he doesn’t know what really happened with the Potter’s Secret Keeper, doesn’t know Moody is Crouch, and doesn’t know the Marauders Map even exists. But in Books 5 and 6, his omniscience does seem to come back online. (In a flashback, Voldemort even comments that he is "omniscient as ever” when Dumbledore lists the specific Death Eaters he has in Hogsmeade as backup.) Dumbledore knows exactly what Draco and Voldemort are planning, and his word is taken as objective truth by the entire Order of the Phoenix - who apparently only tolerate Snape because Dumbledore vouches for him:

“Snape,” repeated McGonagall faintly, falling into the chair. “We all wondered . . . but he trusted . . . always . . . Snape . . . I can’t believe it. . . .”  “Snape was a highly accomplished Occlumens,” said Lupin, his voice uncharacteristically harsh. “We always knew that.”  “But Dumbledore swore he was on our side!” whispered Tonks. “I always thought Dumbledore must know something about Snape that we didn’t. . . .”  “He always hinted that he had an ironclad reason for trusting Snape,” muttered Professor McGonagall (...) “Wouldn’t hear a word against him!”

McGonagall questions Dumbledore about the Dursleys, but not about Snape. I see this as part of the larger trend of basically Dumbledore’s deification. In the beginning of the series, he’s treated as a clever, weird dude. By the end, he’s treated like a god. 

PART II: Chessmaster Dumbledore

“I prefer not to keep all my secrets in one basket.”

When Dumbledore solves problems, he likes to go very hands-off. He didn’t directly teach Harry about the Mirror of Erised - he gave him the Cloak, knew he would wander, and moved the Mirror so it would be in his path. He sends Snape to deal with Quirrell and Draco, rather than do it himself. He (or his portrait) tells Snape to confund Mundungus Fletcher and get him to suggest the Seven Potters strategy. He puts Mrs. Figg in place to watch Harry, then ups the protection in Book 5 - all without informing Harry. The situation with Slughorn is kind of a Dumbledore-manipulation master class - even the way he deliberately disappears into the bathroom so Harry will have enough solo time to charm Slughorn. Of course he only wants Slughorn under his roof in the first place to pick his brain about Voldemort… but again, instead of doing that himself, he gets Harry to do it for him. 

Dumbledore has a moment during Harry’s hearing in Book 5 (which he fakes evidence for) where he informs Fudge that Harry is not under the Ministry’s jurisdiction while at Hogwarts. Which has insane implications. It’s never explicitly stated, but as the story goes on, it at least makes sense that Dumbledore is deliberately obscuring how powerful he is, and how much influence he really has, by getting other people to do things for him. But the problem with that is because he is so powerful, it become really easy for a reader to look back after they get more information and say… well if Dumbledore was controlling the situation… why couldn’t he have done XYZ. Here are two easy examples from Harry’s time spent with the Dursleys:

1. Mrs. Figg is watching over Harry from day one, but she can’t tell him she’s a squib and also she has to keep him miserable on purpose:

“Dumbledore’s orders. I was to keep an eye on you but not say anything, you were too young. I’m sorry I gave you such a miserable time, but the Dursleys would never have let you come if they’d thought you enjoyed it. It wasn’t easy, you know…”

It’s pretty intense to think of Dumbledore saying “oh yes, invite this little child over and keep him unhappy on purpose.” But okay. It’s important to keep Harry ignorant of the magical world and vice versa. fine. But once he goes to Hogwarts… that doesn’t apply anymore?  I’m sure when Harry thinks he’s going to be imprisoned permanently in his bedroom during Book 2, it would’ve been comforting to know that Dumbledore was sending around someone to check on him. And when he literally runs away from home in Book 3… having the address of a trusted adult that he could easily get to would have been great for everybody. 

2. When Vernon is about to actually kick Harry out during Book 5, Dumbledore sends a howler which intimidates Petunia into insisting that Harry has to stay. Vernon folds and does exactly what she says. If Dumbledore could intimidate Petunia into doing this, then why couldn’t he intimidate her into, say - giving Harry the second bedroom instead of a cupboard. Or fixing Harry’s glasses. In Book 1, the Dursleys don’t bother Harry during the entire month of August because Hagrid gives Dudley a pig’s tail. In the summer between third and fourth year, the Dursleys back off because Harry is in correspondence with Sirius (a person they fear.) But the Dursleys are afraid of all wizards. Like at this point it doesn’t seem that hard to intimidate them into acting decently to Harry. 

PART III: Dumbledore and the Dursleys 

“Not a pampered little prince”

JKR wanted two contradictory things. She wanted Dumbledore to be a fundamentally good guy: a wise, if eccentric mentor figure. But she also wanted Harry to have a comedically horrible childhood being locked in a cupboard, denied food, given broken glasses and ill fitting/embarrassing clothes, and generally made into a little Cinderella. Then, it’s a bigger contrast when he goes to Hogwarts and expulsion can be used as an easy threat. (Although the only person we ever see expelled is Hagrid, and that was for murder.)

So, there are a couple of tricks she uses to make it okay that Dumbledore left Harry at the Dursleys.’ The first is that once Harry leaves…  nothing that happens there is given emotional weight. When he’s in the Wizarding World, he barely talks about Dursleys, barely thinks about them. They almost never come up in the narration (unless Harry’s worried about being expelled, or they’re sending him comedically awful presents.) They are completely cut from movies 4, 6, and 7 part 2 - and you do not notice. 

The second trick… is that Dumbledore himself clearly doesn’t think that the Dursleys are that bad. During the King’s Cross vision-quest, he describes 11-year-old Harry as “alive and healthy (...) as normal a boy as I could have hoped under the circumstances. Thus far, my plan was working well.”  

Now, this could have been really interesting. Like in a psychological way, I get it. Dumbledore had a rocky home life. Dad in prison, mom spending all her time taking care of his volatile and dangerous sister. Aberforth seems to have reacted to the situation by running completely wild, it’s implied that he never even had formal schooling… and Albus doubled down on being the Golden Child, making the family look good from the outside, and finding every means possible to escape. I would have believed it if Molly or Kingsley had a beat of being horrified by the way the Dursleys are treating Harry… but Dumbledore treats it as like, whatever. Business as usual. 

But that isn’t the framing that the books use. Dumbledore is correct that the Dursleys aren’t that bad, and I think it’s because JKR fundamentally does not take the Dursleys seriously as threats. I also think she has a fairly deeply held belief that suffering creates goodness, so possibly Harry suffering at the hands of the Dursleys… was necessary? To make him good? Dumbledore himself has an arc of ‘long period of suffering = increased goodness.’ So does Severus Snape, Dudley‘s experience with the Dementor kickstarts his character growth, etc. It’s a trope she likes.

It’s only in The Cursed Child that the Dursleys are given any kind of weight when it comes to Harry’s psyche. This is one of the things that makes me say Jack Thorne wrote that play, because it’s just not consistent with how JKR likes to write the Dursleys. It’s consistent with the way fanfiction likes to write the Dursleys. And look, The Cursed Child is fascinatingly bad, I have so many problems with it, but it does seem to be doing like … a dark reinterpretation of Harry Potter? And it’s interested in saying something about cycles of abuse. I can absolutely see how the way the play handles things is flattering to JKR. It retroactively frames the Dursleys’ abuse in a more negative way, and maybe that’s something she wanted after criticism that the Harry Potter books treat physical abuse kind of lightly. (i.e.  Harry at the hands of the Dursleys, and house-elves at the hands of everybody. Even Molly Weasley “wallops” Fred with a broomstick.) 

PART IV: Dumbledore and Harry

“The whole Potter–Dumbledore relationship. It’s been called unhealthy, even sinister”

So whenever Harry feels betrayed by Dumbledore in the books - and he absolutely does, it’s some of JKR’s best writing  - it’s not because he left him with the Dursleys. It’s because Dumbledore kept secrets from him, or lied to him, or didn’t confide in him on a personal level. 

“Look what he asked from me, Hermione! Risk your life, Harry! And again! And again! And don’t expect me to explain everything, just trust me blindly, trust that I know what I’m doing, trust me even though I don’t trust you! Never the whole truth! Never!” (...) I don’t know who he loved, Hermione, but it was never me. This isn’t love, the mess he’s left me in. He shared a damn sight more of what he was really thinking with Gellert Grindelwald than he ever shared with me.”

Eventually though, Harry falls in line with the rest of the Order, and treats Dumbledore as an all-knowing God. And this decision comes so close to being critiqued…  but the series never quite commits. Rufus Scrimgeour comments that, “Well, it is clear to me that [Dumbledore] has done a very good job on you” - implying that Harry is a product of a deliberate manipulation,  and that the way Harry feels about Dumbledore is a direct result of how he's been controlling the situation (and Harry.)  But Harry responds to “[You are] Dumbledore’s man through and through, aren’t you, Potter?” with “Yeah, I am. Glad we straightened that out,” and it’s treated as a badass, mic drop line. 

Ron goes on to say that Harry maybe shouldn’t be trusting Dumbledore and maybe his plan isn’t that great… but then he abandons his friends, regrets what he did, and is only able to come back because Dumbledore knew he would react this way? So that whole thing only makes Dumbledore seem more powerful? Aberforth  tells Harry (correctly) that Dumbledore is expecting too much of him and he’s not interested in making sure that he survives:

“How can you be sure, Potter, that my brother wasn’t more interested in the greater good than in you? How can you be sure you aren’t dispensable (...) Why didn’t he say… ‘Take care of yourself, here’s how to survive’? (...) You’re seventeen, boy!”

But, Aberforth is treated as this Hamish Abernathy type who has given up, and needs Harry to ignite his spark again. There’s a pretty dark line in the script of Deathly Hallows Part 2:

Which at least shows this was a possible  interpretation the creative team had in their heads… but then of course it isn’t actually in the movie. 

So in the end, insane trust in Dumbledore is only ever treated as proper and good. Then in Cursed Child they start using “Dumbledore” as an oath instead of “Merlin” and it’s weird and I don’t like it.

PART V: Dumbledore and his Strays

“I have known, for some time now, that you are the better man.”

So Dumbledore has this weird relationship pattern. He has a handful of people he pulled out of the fire at some point and (as a result) these people are insanely loyal to him.  They do his dirty work, and he completely controls them. This is an interesting pattern, because I think it helps explain why so many fans read Dumbledore’s relationship with Snape (and with Harry) as sinister. 

Let’s start with the first of Dumbledore’s “strays.” Dumbledore saves Hagrid's livelihood and probably life after he is accused of opening the Chamber of Secrets - and then he uses Hagrid to disappear Harry after the Potters' death, gets him to transport the Philosopher’s Stone, and he’s the one who he trusts to be Harry’s first point of contact with the Wizarding World.  Also, Hagrid's situation doesn’t change? Even after he is cleared of opening the Chamber of Secrets, he keeps using that pink flowered umbrella with his broken wand inside, a secret that he and Dumbledore seem to share. He could get a legal wand, he could continue his education. But he doesn’t seem to, and I don’t know why. 

So, Harry Potter and the Methods of Rationality is a well known fix-it fic that basically asks “What if Harry Potter was a machiavellian little super genius who solves the plot in a year?” I enjoyed it when it was coming out, but the only thing I would call a cheat is the way McGonagall brings Harry to Diagon Alley instead of Hagrid. Because a Harry Potter who has spent a couple of days with McGonagall is going to be much better informed, better equipped and therefore more powerful than a Harry spending the same amount of time with Hagrid. McGonagall is both a lot more knowledgeable and a lot less loyal to Dumbledore. She is loyal, obviously, but she also questions his choices in a way that Hagrid never does. And as a result, Dumbledore does not trust her with the same kind of delicate jobs he trusts to Hagrid.

Mrs. Figg is another one of Dumbledore’s strays. She’s a squib, so we can imagine that she doesn’t really have a lot of other options, and he sets her up to keep tabs on (and be unpleasant to) little Harry. He also has her lie to the entire Wizangamot, which has got to present some risk. Within this framework, Snape is another very clear stray. Dumbledore kept him out of Azkaban, and is the only reason that the Order trusts him. He gets sent on on dangerous double-agent missions… but before that he’s sort of kept on hand, even though he’s clearly miserable at Hogwarts. Firenze is definitely a stray - he can't go back to the centaurs, and who other than Dumbledore is going to hire him? And I do wonder about Trelawney. We don’t know much about her relationship with Dumbledore, but I wouldn’t be at all surprised if she was a stray as well.

I think there was an attempt to turn Lupin into a stray that didn’t… quite work. He is clearly grateful to Dumbledore for letting him attend Hogwarts and then for hiring him, but Lupin doesn’t really hit that necessary level of trustworthy that the others do. Most of what Dumbledore doesn’t know in Book 3 are things that Lupin could have told him, and didn’t. If had to think of a Watsonsian reason why Remus is given all these solo missions away from the other Order members (that never end up mattering…) it’s because I don’t think Dumbledore trusts him that much. Lupin doubts him too much. 

“Dumbledore believed that?” said Lupin incredulously. “Dumbledore believed Snape was sorry James was dead? Snape hated James. . . .”

 We also see Dumbledore start the process of making Draco into a stray by promising to protect him and his parents. And with all of that… it’s kind of easy to see how Harry fits the profile. He has a very bleak existence (which Dumbledore knows about.) He is pulled out of it by Dumbledore’s proxies. It’s not surprising that Harry develops a Hagrid-level loyalty, especially after Dumbledore saves him from Barty, from his Ministry hearing, and then from Voldemort. Harry walks to his death because Dumbledore told him too. 

Just to be clear, I don’t think this pattern is deliberate. I think this is a side effect of JKR wanting to write Dumbledore as a nice guy, and specifically as a protector of the little guy. But Dumbledore doing that while also being so powerful creates a weird power dynamic, gives him a weird edit. It’s part of the reason people are happy to go one step farther and say that the Dursleys were mean to Harry… because Dumbledore actively wanted it that way.  I don’t think that’s true. I think Dumbledore loves his strays and if anything, the text supports the idea that he is collecting good people, because protecting them and observing them serves some psychological function for him. Dumbledore does not believe himself to be an intrinsically good person, or trustworthy when it comes to power. So, of course someone like that would be fascinated by how powerless people operate in the world, and by people like Hagrid and Lupin and Harry, who seem so intrinsically good. 

PART VI - Dumbledore and Grindelwald

“I was in love with you.” 

I honestly see “17-year-old Dumbledore was enamored with Grindelwald” as a smokescreen distracting from the actual moral grayness of the guy. He wrote some edgy letters when he was a teenager, at least partly because he thought his neighbor was hot. He thought he could move Ariana, but couldn’t - which led to the chaotic three-way duel that killed her. 

One thing I think J. K. Rowling does understand pretty well, and introduces into her books on purpose, is the concept of re-traumatization. Sirius in Book 5 is very obviously being re-traumatized by being in his childhood home and hearing the portrait of his mother screaming. It’s why he acts out, regresses, and does a number of unadvisable things. I think it’s also deliberate that Petunia’s unpleasant childhood is basically being re-created: her normal son next to her sister’s magical son. It's making her worse, or at the very least preventing her from getting better. We learn that Petunia has this sublimated interest in the magical world, and can even pull out vocab like “Azkaban” and “Dementor” when she needs to.   She wrote Dumbledore asking to go to Hogwarts, and I could see that in a universe where Petunia didn’t have to literally raise Harry, she wouldn’t be as psychotically into normalness, cleanliness, and order as she is when we meet her in the books. After all, JKR doesn’t like to write evil mothers. She will be bend over backwards so her mothers are never really framed as bad.

And I honestly think it’s possible that J. K. Rowling was playing with the concept of re-traumatiziation when she was fleshing out Dumbledore in Book 7. We learn all this backstory, that… honestly isn’t super necessary? All I’m saying is that the three-way duel at the top of the Astronomy Tower lines up really well with the three-way duel that killed Ariana. Harry is Ariana, helpless in the middle. Draco is Aberforth, well intentioned and protective of his family - but kind of useless, and kind of a liability. Severus is Grindelwald, dark and brilliant, and one of the closest relationships Dumbledore has. If this was intentional, it was probably only for reasons of narrative symmetry… but I think it's cool in a Gus Fring of Breaking Bad sort of way, that Dumbledore (either consciously or unconsciously) has been trying to re-create this one horrible moment in his life where he felt entirely out of control. But the second time it plays out… he can give it what he sees as the correct outcome. Grindelwald kills him and everyone else lives. That is how you solve the puzzle.

If you read between the lines, Dumbledore/Grindelwald is a fascinating love story. I like the detail that after Ariana’s death, Dumbledore returns to Hogwarts because it’s a place to hide and because he doesn’t feel like he can be trusted with power. I like that he sits there, refusing promotions, refusing requests to be the new Minister of Magic, refusing to go deal with the growing Grindelwald threat until he absolutely can’t hide anymore, at which point he defeats him (somehow.) I like reading his elaborate plan to break Elder Wand’s power as both a screw-you to Grindelwald, the wand’s previous master, but also as a weirdly romantic gesture. In Albus Dumbledore’s mind, there is only Grindelwald. Voldemort can’t even begin to compare. I like the detail that Grindelwald won’t give up Dumbledore, even under torture. And, Dumbledore doesn’t put him in Azkaban. He put him in this other separate prison, which always makes it seem like he’s there under Dumbledore authority specifically.  Maybe Dumbledore thinks that if he had died that day instead of Ariana…he wouldn’t have had to spend the rest of his life fighting and imprisoning the man he loves.

And then of course, Crimes of Grindelwald decided to take away Dumbledore's greatest weakness and say that no, actually he was a really good guy who never did anything wrong ever.  He went all that time without fighting Grindelwald because they made a magical friendship no-fight bracelet. Dumbledore is randomly grabbing Lupin’s iconography (his fashion sense, his lesson plans, his job) in order to feel more soft and gentle than the person the books have created. Now Dumbledore knows about the Room Requirement, even though in the books it’s a plot point that he's too much of a goody-two-shoes to have ever found it himself. He loved Grindelwald (past tense.) And Secrets of Dumbledore is mostly about him being an omniscient mastermind so that a magical deer can tell him that he was a super good and worthy guy, and any doubt that he’s ever felt about himself is just objectively wrong and incorrect. Also now Aberforth has a neglected son, so he’s reframed as a bit of a hypocrite for getting on his brother’s case for not protecting Harry. 

So to summarize, I think Dumbledore began the series as this very eccentric, unpredictable mentor, whose abilities took a hit in Books 3 and 4 in order to make the plot happen. He teetered on the edge of a ‘dark’ framing for like a second… but at the the end of the series he's written as basically infallible and godlike. I’ve heard people say that JKR’s  increased fame was the reason she added the Rita Skeeter plot line, and I don’t think that’s true. But I do think her fame may have affected the way she wrote Dumbledore. Because Dumbledore is JKR’s comment on power, and by Book 5 she had so much power. In her head, I don’t think that Dumbledore is handing off jobs in a manipulative way. She sees him as empowering other less powerful people. That is his job as someone in power (because remember - people who desire power shouldn't wield it.)

Dumbledore’s power makes him emotionally disconnected from the people in his life, it makes him disliked and distrusted by the Ministry, but it doesn’t make him wrong. That’s important. Dumbledore is never wrong. Dumbledore is always good. That’s why we get the Blood Pact that means he was never weak or procrastinating. That’s why we get the qilin saying he was a good person. It’s why we get the tragic backstory (because giving Snape a tragic backstory worked wonders when it came to rehabilitating him.) And that is why Harry names his son Albus Severus in the epilogue, to make us readers absolutely crystal clear that these two are good men. 

[back2bluesidex]

One Last Contract - MYG, JHS, KNJ

1. The Undisclosed Reason: Murder (18+)

Pairing: Contract husband!Yoongi X contract wife!Reader, ft. Keeper!Namjoon and Ex-fiancé!Hoseok  

Theme: Mystery, angst, smut, dark, morally grey characters, soft yandere (no non-con or dub-con)

Summary: 

As a professional wife, you have no choice but to say yes to marry Min Yoongi - a mysterious yet intriguing man. But as you start living with him you discover things that meant be secrets, and it may end up being your ruin. Will your keeper aka bodyguard Namjoon and your ex-fiancé Hoseok, who abandoned you without any explanation, be able to pull you out of grasp of the man who you are falling for?

Warnings: soft yandere, implied meds addiction, mentions of death and abuse (nothing triggering). NSFW!!

Inspired from The Trunk (K-drama)

Banner designed by the utterly talented, the kindest, the nicest soul on earth, the one and only @kingofbodyrolls, Lissa. 😘😘😘💜💜💜

Minors do not interact!!

Series Masterlist | Masterlist | Patreon (for early access)

Taglist requests are open

Next installment: Curiosity Killed: None Yet

“The undisclosed reason…” His voice echoes in the mostly empty dining place, “you know what it is, don’t you?” from the way his voice sounds so distant, you know he is facing away from you. 

Your hand momentarily stops wiping the dishes. Your mind tricks you into thinking that he is testing you. 

He is testing if you are afraid of him or not. 

He is testing if you will break under his pressure or not. 

And you won’t. 

You’d only be afraid of dying if you were living. Death doesn’t scare you anymore, not when you are a walking shell of a human who has long accepted her demise. 

“I do.” you reply briefly, resuming your task at hand. 

And then you let your mind divert, let it go wherever it wants, let it land wherever it sees fit. 

“Why did you say yes then? To this marriage?” suddenly his voice is close. When you look up you see him standing at the other side of the kitchen counter. 

His eyes pierce through yours. For the first time in a week of knowing him, you see life in those eyes. You see fire. 

“The money is good. And saying no to a project reflects negatively on performance review.” You keep your focus on wiping the dishes. 

Min Yoongi stands there, staring at you as if you are an alien that has suddenly teleported to his house. 

If he expects you to shrink under his scrutinizing gaze then he is wrong. You are not that fragile. 

“Also… I am not scared to die.” you add, as quietly as possible. For a moment you wonder if he has caught you spilling those words or not. 

Maybe he has not. 

But then you hear him chuckling. 

A low, rumbly sound that resembles tiny pebbles rolling down a rocky path. 

When you look up again, his eyes lock with yours for a second time - you know he hasn’t looked away for a moment even. 

“Then what are you scared of?” Yoongi takes a dangerous step towards you, his voice dips down an octave lower. 

“Nothing.” you reply as confident as ever. 

Yoongi takes another step and crosses the thin kitchen counter to stand right before you, towering you with his figure. His body casts a shadow on yours - you are in the dark now. 

“Not even what I might do to you?” He raises his hand. With his index finger, he traces the contour of your face. “What if I do something bad? Dirty? Something worse than killing you?” 

As soon as his finger comes in contact with your skin - you feel tingles all over your body. 

It’s been years - years - since you felt something akin to this. 

Your last husband was asexual. The one before him was gay. The one before that had an affair with someone of his mother’s age. And the previous two were terminally ill. 

Min Yoongi is your first totally normal project. You wondered what had made the man cave in - to seek the assistance of a contract marriage while he could have anyone in this world within a snap of his fingers. That was until you came to know the secret. 

Min Yoongi was investigated for his ex-wife’s death. Although that was a suicide, she wrote his name in the note. 

But now as he stands before you, under the extremely dim light of the kitchen, you are not sure - of what, you don’t know. 

Anyone in the world would find him scary, especially with that scar running down on his face. But to you he looks beautiful - especially with that scar running down on his face. All of sudden, your heart is overwhelmed with an urge of tracing his scar and wishing for it to tell tales - what happened, how it happened. 

“Do you want to do something bad, dirty to me?” you find yourself challenging him. 

His lips stretch in a smile, “does your company allow that? To have sex with the contract spouses?”  

“If both parties want, then yes.” you inhale a sharp breath. The proximity, his scent, his droopy eyes, slightly parted mouth and that long dark hair cascading to his neck make you feel dizzy. 

“Do you want it?” he asks, pushing himself closer to your body. 

“As long as you use protection, yes.” Even before you could finish your sentence properly, Yoongi winds a hand around your waist and pulls you towards him. 

Your body presses together. Electricity runs around like a pair of close-knit open circuits. 

“If you regret your decision later, it’s not my fault.” he breathes down on your mouth before closing the remaining gap. 

His mouth molds on yours as you kiss him back instantly.

Again, years - it has been years - since you have shared a kiss. 

His big hands trace the path of your lower back, down the valley of your arse. Planting his palms there, he gives you a squeeze. 

Arousal gushes out of your cunt. 

The kiss is bruising. It translates how hungry both of you have been for any kind of physical action. 

Yoongi backs you on the counter, nibbling down on your lower lip and breaking the kiss while pulling the muscle of your lip with his teeth. 

He wastes no time in attaching his mouth to the angle of your jaw, leaving marks all over the column of your throat and then on your collar bones. 

His hands now travel underneath your sweater, Touching the expanse of your skin that is hidden from his eyes. When his hands reach the underside of your bra, he detaches his face from your throat and looks at you intently. 

You know he is asking for permission, which you didn’t expect from someone who was booked for instigating his ex-wife’s death. 

You nod. 

Yoongi takes his time in pulling your sweater up from your body and discarding it somewhere around the vast dining place. He, then, stares at you, with hooded eyes full of last. 

Your arousal dampens your underwear. Fuck. you absolutely didn’t expect this. 

Reaching out for your bra, you unclasp it and let it pool down on your shoulders. 

Yoongi stares at you. He doesn’t move just yet. You follow his eyes as those lower from your face to your exposed chest. 

And then he moves. Grabbing you harshly by your waist he hikes you up and sits you down on the kitchen counter. 

The cold steel top sends shivers through every corner of your body. Your already erected nipples, stands for attention even more. 

Yoongi wraps his lips on one of your nipples in a long, languid suck. You can’t help but moan. 

His one hand holds you tightly by your waist and another rolls your unoccupied nipple between his thumb and index finger. 

A gush of pleasure flows out of your core. 

Your fingers find their way in his dark locks. You take time to enjoy raking your fingers through his silky-smooth strands. 

He sinks his teeth on your nipple, making you curse out loud. Your toes curl. 

Leaving your tit alone, Yoongi dives inside your sweat pants, right through your underwear and touches your slick cunt. 

His index finger runs along your slit at first and then his thumb joins to stretch out your fold and enter your hole. 

“So wet already, huh? Seems like your previous husbands were no good.” Yoongi comments in a fleeting way. 

You can’t object. He is right. 

He enters two fingers in you without any warning. The stretch burns at first but as he scissors his fingers slowly, you find your eyes rolling backwards. 

Yoongi’s bulge presses down on your stomach and you decide you want him. You want him now. 

“Fuck me. Fuck me already.” you murmur in his hair. 

You can feel him smirking against the skin of your throat. 

“As my wife says.” he detaches his body from yours. You stare at him as he stips off of his clothing. 

Once he is out of his underwear, his dick springs up and slams against his belly. He rolls down the condom that was hiding somewhere in his pockets - you wonder if he planned his earlier. 

You get even wetter. 

Within a second he is back at where he was. He takes off your remaining clothing in a haste and lines his cock to your entrance. 

Giving you a quick stare, he enters in you, smooth and swift. 

Your breath hitches. 

Five years. After five whole years you are being pleasured. 

He goes slow at first, gives you time to adjust and then picks up his pace. 

Min Yoongi, your contract husband fucks you in his kitchen. Fucks you so good that you can’t remember what brings you here - with him, under him. 

Fucks you at an inhuman pace. 

When you cum on his cock, he grunts loudly and that’s one of the most attractive sounds you have ever heard. 

He moans again when he cums inside the condom. 

As you both try to catch your breath, he looks at you with a smirk playing on his lips. 

“And what if I kill you now?” he asks, voice hoarse with all the moans and groans. 

“Will you?” 

“Maybe.” 

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[annadiplosis]

A few months ago I posted a couple photos of my index cards, saying I still didn’t know how and where I’d keep them, and I’ve since developed an Archiving System that combines the cards with a digital spreadsheet and has taken more hours than I will ever admit.

So, since I don’t have a “notebook system” to speak of, I'd like to share the way I archive my journals / sketchbooks / whatever you wanna call them, because I’m very proud of it, and who knows, someone might find it helpful :)

WHY I NEED AN ARCHIVING SYSTEM

The reason I don’t have a notebook system is because I use my books for absolutely everything, from sketches to grocery lists and journaling. It is crucial to me to not have any restrictions or expectations when it comes to my books, and that’s how I’ve managed to fill 43 of them over the years.

But of course, when you’ve been using notebooks without a system for most of your life and you want to read a specific entry, you can easily spend a full hour flipping through a sea of paper until you stumble upon those notes on the Bubonic Plague you took in 2011 or whatever you were trying to find.

SO HERE’S WHAT I DO

When I finish a notebook, I try to determine what its most important contents are: stuff I might want to reference in the future (project ideas, meeting notes) or is very characteristic of a period in my life (friends' drawings, travel logs). Every single page contributes to making the notebook what it is and gives it a unique personality, but not all of them are gonna be keepers, and that's fine (I'd even say fundamental, at least in my case).

These are the extremely generic categories I sort my Chosen Entries into. It's similar to the dot system so many people use, just applied retroactively:

🟣 Study notes 🔵 Work 🟢 Personal 🟡 Projects 🔴 Misc

And here's where the real archiving begins. This info goes into:

1. THE INDEX CARDS

(I always write them in Catalan; this one's a mockup and most of these are not real entries)

A little piece of cardboard with the notebook number, its start and end dates, and most important contents. I keep each index card inside its corresponding notebook, either in its own backpocket or an adhesive one I stick there myself.

This way, whenever I want to take a quick look through the book, I get a general idea of its contents at first glance. Sometimes, just holding it in my hand and reading the index card brings me back to the time when I was keeping it, and that time-travel feeling gives me a rush like no other. I don't know if you can tell, but I'm crazy about my notebooks.

2. THE SPREADSHEET

Same as before, just a couple more pieces of info (number of months, physical description) added to a file with the rest of my notebooks' data. Again, these are not real entries for privacy and language reasons, but they're very similar to the kind of stuff I do keep. The spreadsheet helps me find specific entries with a simple ctrl+f, and it's also a bird's-eye view of my progress through the years as a notebook keeper. I can see when my interests shift, how long some of my most important projects took to come to fruition, and even similar types of entries that repeat every few years which I wasn't even aware of before putting it all together. Absolutely fascinating stuff.

I hope this was useful, or interesting at the very least! If you’re a notebook keeper trying to find their own archiving system, my main advice would be to start early so you don’t have to deal with almost two decades of material like I did :’)

If you have any questions, don't be afraid to ask.

Good luck 🖤

[dandelionsresilience]

Dandelion News - January 22-28

Like these weekly compilations? Tip me at $kaybarr1735 or check out my Dandelion Doodles!

1. Sunfish that got sick after aquarium closed has recovered — thanks to human cutouts

“A solitary sunfish […] appeared unwell days after the facility closed last month for renovations. As a last-ditch measure to save the popular fish, its keepers hung their uniforms and set up human cutouts outside the tank. The next morning, the sunfish ate for the first time in about a week and has been steadily recovering[….]”

2. Costco stands by DEI policies, accuses conservative lobbyists of 'broader agenda'

“[Each of the board of directors and 98% of shareholders voted to reject a measure against DEI.] Costco's board wrote that “our commitment to an enterprise rooted in respect and inclusion is appropriate and necessary[….]””

3. Nearly $37 Million Will Support Habitat Restoration in Coastal Louisiana

“The project will restore nearly 380 acres of marsh and construct more than 7,000 feet of terraces in St. Bernard Parish. […] Coastal wetlands help protect communities [… from] wind, waves, and flooding[… and] support a statewide seafood industry valued at nearly $1 billion per year.”

4. Cooling green roofs seemed like an impossible dream for Brazil's favelas. Not true!

“[… A Brazilian nonprofit] teaches favela residents how to build their own green roofs as a way to beat the heat without overloading electrical grids[…,] dampen noise pollution, improve building energy efficiency, prevent flooding by reducing storm water runoff and ease anxiety.”

5. Bacteria found to eat forever chemicals -- and even some of their toxic byproducts

“"Many previous studies have only reported the degradation of PFAS, but not the formation of metabolites. We not only accounted for PFAS byproducts but found some of them continued to be further degraded by the bacteria," says the study's first author[….]”

6. A father and daughter’s to turn oil data into life-saving water

“The aquifer [discovered through oil-owned seismic data], it turned out, was vast enough to provide water for 2 million people for more than a century.”

7. Trump’s funding pause won’t impact federal student loans, Pell Grants

“[… T]he temporary pause will not impact “assistance received directly by individuals,” including federal direct student loans and Pell Grants, which are government subsidies that help low-income students pay for college.”

8. In Uganda, a women-led reforestation initiative fights flooding, erosion

“[… T]he Kasese municipality has established nurseries to provide free tree seedlings, particularly to women, to support reforestation efforts. [… They] plant Ficus trees near their homesteads to provide shade and help control erosion, and Dracaena trees on their fields to retain soil moisture.”

9. [A Texas school board] votes yes to provide low-cost housing to staff at no cost to the district

“The program will include 300 homes[…] only a short commute to campuses. […] Rent will be determined on a sliding scale based on their salaries, with those making less receiving a larger discount. The proposed community would include amenities, like childcare facilities[….]”

10. Heat pumps keep widening their lead on gas furnaces

“Americans bought 37% more air-source heat pumps than the next-most-popular heating appliance, gas furnaces, during the first 11 months of the year. That smashes 2023’s record-setting lead of 21%.”

January 15-21 news here | (all credit for images and written material can be found at the source linked; I don’t claim credit for anything but curating.)

[cheshireliam]

William Rex 2nd Birthday Campaign: Story (2024)

Chapters 1 - 3

This is a fan-made translation solely for entertainment purposes with no guaranteed perfection. I do not own any of the original content. Please support CYBIRD by buying their stories and playing their games. Reblogs appreciated.

Warnings and FAQ

!! Contains spoilers from William's main story !!

1st Birthday Campaign Story

—

I occasionally find myself reminiscing about the very first time I touched the pair of hands that took lives and gave freedom to others at the same time.

I have no regrets about surrendering everything in my life to those hands.

That’s why, today too, I’m by your side and singing my songs of love for you to my heart's content.

…

On my beloved’s birthday, I went to see my lover earlier than anyone else.

Kate: Happy birthday, Will!

William: Thank you, Kate. Looks like my little robin woke up earlier than usual today.

Kate: I did that to be the first to wish you a happy birthday.

William: Ahh, so that’s why this morning feels more wonderful.

William: What’s that tea trolley with the delicious looking black tea and sandwiches?

Kate: It’s your special birthday breakfast. I borrowed the kitchen this morning to prepare it.

Kate: Ah, but that's not all. I have more surprises prepared for you today—

William: … Fufu.

Kate: Will?

William: Nothing. I shall not doubt your confidence.

My cheeks turned red, it made me both happy and embarrassed to hear his jolly laughter.

Kate: Today’s your special day, and it has to be memorable for you.

Kate: I’m sorry for being so greedy.

William: You know that your greediness is what I love most about you, villainous woman.

Will smiled and gently pulled me closer by the waist.

William: Come, Kate. I shall enjoy the best breakfast with my adorable lover.

After finishing the dessert strawberries,

William: So, what does my greedy little robin want to do today?

Kate: What do you say about going to a photography studio to have your photograph taken?

William: A photograph… I’ve never thought of that.

Kate: I want to immortalise you, the embodiment of evil, as the fairytale keeper.

Kate: Words are wonderful indeed, but I feel that photographs are meaningful as well.

May my records of the self-righteous King’s sins be passed down from generation to generation, like a spoonful of poison warning against committing evil deeds.

“Look, the self-righteous King will come if you commit evil deeds. Therefore, you must never be evil”.

Because a fairytale can only end when evil has received judgement.

Kate: … You don’t want to?

William: I’d love to, this is a wonderful present you thought of. Thank you, Kate.

Kate: I’m relieved to hear that. Knowing you, there must already be one or two photos of you taken without your consent,

Kate: Besides, Her Majesty is quite a big fan of taking photos… right?

William: Yes, there's even a saying that “she is the pride of England’s photography”.

William: However, excluding a few candid shots Victor took, there has never been a proper photograph of me.

Kate: Why is that so?

William: Her Majesty never allows herself to be photographed. It’s unfair that I’m the only one being photographed, right?

William: Even though she has a role to play in this evil too, I’m the only one being known as the villain.

William’s exaggerated shrug brought a smile to my face without me realising it.

William: My “very first” photograph. I love this present from you.

(Will’s first… hehe)

Kate: Then let’s hurry to the photography studio. I have the carriage ready— ah.

When I was about to stand up and head out, Will pulled me back and I fell into his chest.

William: Before that, I want a birthday kiss.

Kate: … But we’ll be late for the photoshoot.

(I want a kiss too.)

(But I know that if we kiss, we won't be able to stop.)

William: You’re being a naughty girl, saying things that go against what your heart desires and making me out to be the bad guy.

William: Kate, “what do you want”...?

He easily exposed my innermost desires, unravelling my heart like loosening a knot.

There was no point trying to hide anything from Will.

Kate: I want a kiss.

William: Then shall we do that until we get tired of it?

…

We would never get tired of kissing, so we reluctantly parted our lips and made our way to the studio just in time.

Studio Owner: I’ve been awaiting your arrival!

Studio Owner: We have lovely weather today, so we can have a photoshoot both indoors and outdoors.

Studio Owner: Where would you like to have your photos taken?

Kate: … Will would look amazing outdoors. Ah, but he looks good indoors too.

Studio Owner: Ahaha, let’s do both then. This way, please.

Kate: Oh, thank you…

William: You’re so lovely when you’re being loyal to your desires. Well then, I shall live up to your expectations.

The photoshoot began a few minutes later, and it didn't take me long to realise what Will meant by those words.

(W-William… he looks PERFECT!)

With every pose Will struck, I could only sigh in awe.

William: How do I look, Kate?

Kate: … Perfect. Ah, please show us a wink.

William: Ahahaha! I’m glad you're enjoying this.

— At that moment, the doorbell at the entrance of the studio rang.

An elderly couple walked in.

Elderly Woman: My, are we a little too early?

William: We were just about to take a break. Would you like to proceed with your photoshoot?

…

Studio Owner: Let’s start the photoshoot! Alright, here we go.

We decided to watch the elderly couple during their photoshoot.

Under the clear blue sky, their smiles and the present moment were captured with every click of the camera shutters.

(They lived a long life together snuggled up like this… how beautiful.)

Watching them hold hands, their hands wrinkled from old age, my chest felt tight.

“Destruction” awaited Will and I with open arms at the end of our love story.

There was no knowing for certain that our destruction wouldn't come tomorrow.

There might never come a day when we could lean on each other lovingly like that elderly couple.

(Even so, I have no regrets. I will continue to live freely by Will’s side until the final moment of my life.)

(It's my freedom and my heart’s desire to love him until the end.)

The heart that Will set free continues beating to this day.

William: ...

William: I have a favour to ask of you, Kate.

Kate: What is it? It’s your birthday, so I’ll do anything you want.

William: Sounds promising. Well then, will you take a photo together with me?

Kate: Together?

William: Yes. You’re allowed to refuse if you don't want to be remembered as the self-righteous King’s lover.

Kate: Let’s take a photo together!

Kate: … Actually… I’ve been wanting to take a photo with you…

William: Ahahaha! I had a feeling you did.

William: If that's the case, let us flaunt our evil to the fullest.

— I wonder what the people looking at our photographs in the future will think of us?

Will they think of me as a foolish woman who was spell-bound by the sinful self-righteous king, leading to my own destruction?

(I don't care what they’ll say about me.)

(Because my heart is free and happy.)

…

Upon returning to the castle after the photoshoot, I guided Will to the dining room.

All the members of Crown were present to celebrate his birthday as planned.

We had cake decorated with strawberries, enjoyed a delicious feast, and drank wine until late into the night—

…

Kate: Mm… nn…

I was roused from my sleep by the gentle sunlight hitting my eyelids, my body wrapped in the sheets and the heat from last night still lingering.

(Ah, Will and I got intimate last night, and we fell asleep right after—)

(Is Will still asleep?)

I slowly lifted my head from Will’s chest that smelled like roses and caught his eyes, the colour of blood gazing at me.

His eyes seemed to hide a gentle rainfall.

Kate: … Will?

William: … Kate.

William: How many more of such special moments will we have?

His tone sounded more serious than usual, I gazed at Will while being held close to his chest and listening carefully to his every word.

William: I don't mean that I’ll let you die easily, but…

William: We’ll never know for sure whether fate will take you away tomorrow.

Kate: Yeah���

William: However, that won't make me regret or give up on loving you…

William: No, instead, that’s why I—

Kate: Will, mm…

William pressed his lips to mine.

The kiss felt more passionate than usual, and I found myself reflexively clinging to his shirt—

Our lips finally parted and he whispered in between ragged breaths.

William: I will risk everything I have to love you.

William: I will listen to and cherish the voices from your heart, and sing the melody of the finest love song.

At that very moment, Will and I shared the same emotion in our hearts.

We didn't know what would happen tomorrow, making that moment all the more precious.

I felt alive.

Kate: Sometimes… I wonder…

Kate: What kind of facial expression will I be wearing when my ultimate destruction comes?

Kate: I think… I’ll surely be smiling happily.

William: … And when I’m holding your happily smiling dead body in my arms, your poison will spread and stop my breathing too.

Kate: … At that point of time, shall we go to sleep together at the finishing line?

William: … Yeah, sounds good to me.

William: But let's put that plan on hold for a bit.

William: For now, may I kiss those beautifully wicked lips of yours that can charm even the most sinful of men?

Kate: Yes… kiss me, Will.

Kate: Mm… nn…

William: Kate…

The desire in his gaze, the smell of roses in the air, the feeling of his hot fingertips on my skin.

Everything Will gave me fueled my desires and made me breathe.

(I was as good as dead before I met Will.)

I spent my life suppressing and killing my heart, ignoring my inner voice.

I felt lost, not knowing what I wanted.

Loving Will might’ve made me born again.

Kate: Will, Will…

William: … Hm?

Kate: If I keep being loved like this… I might never bear to leave you.

William: Want to hear something that’ll benefit you?

Kate: …? What is it? Please tell me.

William: I requested a day off on the day after my birthday.

William: Because I wasn't confident that I’d be able to let you leave this bed.

Kate: E-Eh…?

I was surprised for a brief moment before I burst out laughing.

Kate: … Fufu, ahaha!

Kate: I didn't expect you to surprise me again this year!

William: It’s not as if you don't know that I’m very loyal to my desires?

Kate: Yes, of course I know that.

William: So, Kate. Shall we make love in bed again, or—

Kate: I want it all. Give me a taste of everything.

William: Alright. … I was just thinking the same thing.

William: We’ll make love so hard, you’ll have scratches on your back.

Kate: Ah.

Will laughed as I looked in surprise at the scratches I left on his back last night.

…

A few days after Will’s birthday.

I went to the photo studio to collect the photos we took on his birthday—

Studio Owner: Huh? Didn't you just come to pick up your photos earlier on?

Kate: Eh? Was Will here?

Studio Owner: Yes. Fufu, the two of you sure think alike. The photos turned out wonderful too.

(I missed him. … This is embarrassing.)

(But it makes me wonder if Will was looking forward to seeing the photos. I’m happy if that's true.)

Kate: Thank you for taking such wonderful photos of us.

Studio Owner: …

Studio Owner: When he came to collect the photos, I told him “you look happy”.

Kate: Eh?

Studio Owner: But—

– Flashback Start -

William: Happy, huh. That’s strange, because people can never know what’s in another person’s heart.

William: Even though someone appears to be happy, they may be burdened by the feelings of loneliness, conflict…

William: Take these photographs for example. When the future generations look at them, it’s up to them how they want to feel.

William: But that's alright.

William: … Only the people in the photographs know the truth.

– Flashback End –

Studio Owner: That was why I couldn't help but ask him a question.

Studio Owner: “Is your heart happy?”

Kate: What did Will… what did he say?

Studio Owner: “It is, as long as I’m living with her”.

Kate: … I-Is that so?

(I… I see.)

Unexpectedly learning of Will’s genuine feelings made me so, so incredibly happy, I nearly cried.

At that very moment, I felt truly happy.

[mae-gi-writes]

Finders Keepers | Gally [TMR] - Part 1

In which Gally gets soft for one of the boys in the Glade, only…is it a boy? alternatively; In which Mai disguises herself into a boy to fit in the Glade, only to be suspected by the keen eyes of the Builder's Keeper.

NEXT >>

-------

"Enjoying life, Greenie?" 

Dark eyes framed by thick lashes look up with a scowl at the said Builder's voice. And here Mai had hoped for some peace and tranquility after having spent all day out in the sun pulling out weeds and listening to Zart talk incessantly about his love of plants and whatever. 

Gally stands ahead of the new boy, leaning against one of Homestead's supporting structures with the kind of grin that makes Mai want to run for it. No wonder so many new Greenies decide that the Maze is a fair chance. When Gally's out here storming through the grounds, Mai isn't quite sure that the Glade is as safe as they all make it out to be. His temper is something to be reckoned with. 

Mai's been here for only over a week and to say that it's comfortable would be a lie. It feels suffocating, all the more because of the number of people cramped into the Glade. 

Gally takes a step towards the Greenie and the latter freezes up for a second, inwardly screaming at him to go back where he comes from because god knows Mai does not want the peace created undisturbed. But seems that Gally doesn't read faces well, for he plonks himself down next to the new boy while pushing up his shirt sleeves currently caked with mud from all the hard work he's been doing around the Glade. 

The words fall from Mai's mouth without warning, "aren't you supposed to be with your Builders?" 

For a minute, Gally's eyebrows quirk up in surprise. Not a lot of people dare to stand up to him and yet, this new recruit has the kind of fire in his eyes that makes Gally smirk. Little smartass, he thinks to himself. 

"I'm their Keeper, I can do whatever I want." 

"Slacking off is also part of that job title?" 

"You've got quite a mouth on you for a Greenie." 

Mai's scowl merely deepens before he looks away. Gally's right. That's not the right way to keep a low profile here. In the Glade, hierarchy was everything and Mai is stupid to believe that Gally's interest in him excuses Mai from any sort of punishment he might have to offer. 

"Sorry," Mai mutters. 

Gally doesn't seem to mind, clapping a hand on the younger boy's back before he pulls himself back up, "Gotta go back to work Greenie. You coming?" 

Mai grumbles but does as told, already feeling the scars on his hands where he'd been pulling out weeds all morning. He just hopes that his phase with the Garden people is just what it is - a phase. There are far more fun things to be done around the Glade and unwillingly, the Greenie casts a glance back at Gally's broad back as the latter makes his way to his newest architectural invention.

Mai feels his face flush and quickly averts his gaze, knowing full well that he needs to get a hold of himself if he wants to survive in this place.

Well, she needs to get a hold of herself. 

----

Lie.

Lie to them. And to yourself.

Lie, Mai.

Those were the first few words that Mai heard echoing in the back of her brain the moment she'd stepped out of the metal box. The crowd of boys around her hadn't suspected a thing, considering that she was dressed as a boy, had close-cropped hair and was so scrawny one could barely believe a female's body laid underneath. The words were so poignant, dripping with venom of instructions, that Mai had done as told. She'd lied to them all, for the sake of safety.

And maybe that was what had saved her, in the long run.

It's complicated living in a Glade full of horny boys. Mai has to be careful because every second counts. When she goes to the toilet, for example, making up the excuse that she needs to do "a big one" as she'd mutter out to the other boys while averting her gaze elsewhere. Or when she's changing, always volunteering to go pick out weeds and quickly dropping into the Runner's chambers so she could get into fresh clothes. The biggest challenge had been the showers. It was communal and most boys didn't care at all for privacy. So Mai had to wait out in the dark. No boys enjoyed bathing in utter darkness, so night time was her best opportunity. She'd wait until everyone was drowsy enough not to realize that she was gone, scrubbing down her body in milliseconds before shoving on her new clothes.

Thankfully, the boys are either too dumb or too preoccupied with dealing with what the Maze has to offer to give her attention, and for that Mai is grateful.

"So have you decided?"

She looks up from her bowl of soup freshly made by Frypan and herself -- they'd decided to put her with the said young man for the day to see how she would fare and in all honesty, Mai thinks that this is probably the first time she's felt at ease with something -- into Alby's dark eyes.

Their leader is not one that speaks for nothing, and so everything that does come out of his mouth is of some importance.

"I definitely don't want to be a Slicer," she responds with a shrug, and takes another gulp of her soup. The leader takes a seat across from hers with an amused smile, "why not? I think it's fitting."

"Shut up Alby," she scowls at him.

"Alright alright," he lifts his hands in surrender, "considering your frame, I say we make you a Cook. Frypan needs all the help he can get anyway."

"That's offensive," Mai states, "what's wrong with my size?"

"C'mon Greenie, you're like four feet tall. You can't hold or build nothing, you suck at gardening, you've got no shuck stamina. I think the kitchen's where you belong."

"Thanks Alby, really shucking inspirational."

"You're welcome." Alby grins. Someone cries out his name then, something to do with the Runners, and he hits you lightly on the arm as he stands, "right. Off to work, shank."

Mai watches as his back shrinks with more distance, and wonders whether Alby suspects something off about her — or him. She's so careful, always double or triple checking, but she can never be too sure. Is that why he's sticking her into the kitchen where he thinks girls belong?

No, you're thinking too much into it, Mai thinks to herself. It's fine, you're doing fine.

Obviously, it's not just fine.

She busies herself all afternoon working as Frypan's assistant in the kitchen. He is easy-going and makes her feel a lot better, something about his presence reassures her, even though the close cooking quarters makes moving about impossible without touching one another. That's not something that Mai feels comfortable with, so she does try her best to avoid moving in the same direction.

Tonight is pork curry from the Slicer's last batch, paired with flavored rice and some green beans from the Track-Hoes gardens. The boys are hungry by the time evening falls and Mai busies herself by serving them one another another, until the familiar clamour of metal causes the entire Glade to freeze.

It's been a week, and yet Mai is still not comfortable hearing the gates close them in every night. The same gates keeping them from the outside. The same gates trapping them in, in a world that they can't even control.

Mai's fury burns as she thinks of it.

"Hey," she turns to see the blonde, the one that looks like an elf with features so delicate that she might swoon at the look of him. He's the next in line, amused by the fact that she seems distracted.

"O—Oh. Sorry," she quickly shoves a few pieces of Pork into his plate and loads it up with the greenbeans, "here you go."

"Thanks Greenie," he cocks his head st her curiously, "how you holding up?"

Mai shrugs, embarrassed that she can't seem to recall his name even though she knows he's second-in-command, "doing alright I suppose. Alby finally figured out what to do with me."

"Yeah I think you're better suited for it than picking out weeds. Zart wasn't impressed."

"It's not my fault your weeds seem to be ten meters long." Mai protests as a flush creeps up her neck.

Newt laughs, "I'm joking Greenie. Relax. Anyway," he lifts his plate in mock salute, "thanks for this. Hope I don't choke on it."

"Well I hope you do!" Mai yells out after him, only to add after some minor reflection, "—a little bit."

After having served all Gladers, Mai takes her own plate and tries to find a seat. Alas, the task proves itself hard upon noticing that all tables are already full. There's only one place open — and that one place is by the Runner's table.

Now, it's not that Mai wants to be rude and ignore them altogether. But the Runners only bring out the particular memory of her pathetic wheeze after having run merely a mile, deeming her not fit for the said job. That embarrassment had only made Mai want to avoid the Runners altogether if she could.

But alas, fate is not on her side today. She spots the asian boy called Minho, whose eyebrows quirk up when their eyes meet. He casts a quick glance at her tray, has a look around, before he grins and beckons her over.

"Hey Greenie," he says as soon as her butt hits her seat. His dimpled smile paired with his pretty crescent moon eyes doesn't help with her heart, "thought you'd never wanna show your shuck face around us after that run."

"Some people aren't Runners. Get over it," you say it more in a mutter but loud enough that it gets the entire table into chuckles.

"Well I think you might just be the next Frypan," another Runner says, "I'm Ben by the way."

"Mai," she responds, not enjoying the way his eyes seem to flicker over her face in thought, as if he's trying to figure out what's off with her.

Because there is something off, just not the kind that they'd expect.

"Huh, Mai." Ben tries it out on his tongue. He takes another bite of his curry, "how are you liking the glade?"

"S'alright. I just wish the Builders could maybe build us actual beds instead of having hammocks."

"Oh he said it," Minho claps Mai's back so hard she almost spits out her food, thankful he hasn't noticed when he only slings an arm around her shoulder to pull her closer, "hey Gally! Greenie here has a problem with your hammocks!"

Uh oh. Mai's horror triples as she watches the said Builder stand from his seat. Numerous eyes have swayed across tables to land on her now. Gally strides towards them slowly, a predator confident in his skin, she can't help but squirm back.

He's intimidating and scary. And yet, her stomach squeezed with an unfamiliar feeling altogether.

"You got a problem with the hammocks?"

Gally's voice brings her back to reality. Mai blinks, "uhm—no, not at all—"

"That's not what you said a few seconds ago Greenie," Minho grins, "come on. Tell him. He doesn't bite."

"He might," mutters Ben from your other side.

"Uh— I was saying how comfortable the hammocks were," Mai responds with a nervous laugh, "so yeah— good job Gally."

Gally doesn't seem convinced, but a call from Alby stating that he wishes to see the Keepers thankfully breaks the attention from Mai.

"Right," Minho quickly clears the plates  away, but not before ruffling Mai's hair as he does so, "I'll see you guys tomorrow. Try not to die Greenie."

Mai lets out a soft sigh as the asian boy makes a run for it, followed by Gally after having thrown her another glance. He doesn't say anything though and as the Glade slowly starts to die out — boys settling into their hammocks and others taking their turns in the showers — Mai is glad when no one seems to pay her attention in favor of sleep. No surprise there, considering how tiring they are after all this hard work.

She settles into her own hammock, tied up close to the elfin-looking blonde, and tries to get comfortable. The Maze walls look even larger as she stares up at them, her breath catching in her throat as she thinks of all the boys that have lived here for months without hope.

Mai falls asleep that night, dreaming of the what ifs and the endless possibilities of what the future might hold.

She just hopes that they'll make it out one day, hopes that the echoing voices at the back of her head are just that — voices.

-----

A/N: AAANd that's a wrap for the first chapter! Like I said, I'm in a TMR brainrot so don't mind me or my obsessive behaviour towards Gally in these series. And can I just say that Will Poulter has aged like fine wine. See you in the next chapter! Do let me know if you wanna be added to the taglist <3

[gentrychild]

Au where Mr. Henderson finds out about Anya's powers first.

1 - Anya is a GOOD GIRL who is working for WORLD PEACE and she gets NO THANKS for it. All of it happened because she was trying to prevent a fourth tonitrus, (due to bad grades) and she did her best. Sadly, her best involved her cheating like crazy on the smartest student in the class.

2 - Henderson calls her in his office because a mediocre student can't suddenly strike a perfect score. The problem is that it's pretty clear who she cheated on but now how? The bright student was at the opposite side of the classroom, they were watched the whole time, and it just doesn't make sense... until Anya, distracted by the good snacks, accidentally answers to something he didn't say out loud. For two minutes. (Those were really good snacks.)

3 - Henderson goes through a crisis of faith if elegance can be considered a deity and a faith. On one hand, small child with apparently telepathic powers cheated, which is bad. On the other hand, he is the kind of student who would die for his students and he knows that this secret can NOT get out. He also discovers that her parents do not know about her ability and immediately assumes that it's the power from her dead mother and really let his imagination go wild. He becomes her secret keeper, her tutor (because the best way for her to stop cheating is for her to get the right answers on her own) and he is close to a heart attack every time he feels her secret is about to be revealed.

4 - More seriously, it's the AU where Henderson puts actual accommodation for a child who keeps getting distracted by people's thoughts and it works! Strix now adores the man because Anya is finally becoming a good student.

5 - Henderson has just started getting used to the whole "Small child who can read people's mind" when Anya drops the "My dog can see the future" bomb on him.

[myownwholewildworld]

acta, non verba - ii. there is no treachery in the art of war

chapter 1 | series masterlist | ao3 | main masterlist | chapter 3 pairing: conqueror!marcus acacius x ofc!reader. summary: you need to start moving the game along, but you cannot be too obvious. or... can you? a/n: hello there! c: here's the second chapter! there is quite a bit of character & world building in this one, as i felt it served the storyline, so i hope you guys like it! i wanted to thank you all for your nice, encouring words on the first chapter, it really motivated me to keep on writing! you guys are amazing 💖 as always, all interactions welcome, i do appreciate you liking, sharing and/or commenting! take care <3 warnings: 18+, mdni. references to marital abuse (physical and sexual) and child marriage (massive age gap, not in a cutesy way), in line with the time this story is set on. mentions of death/murder. mention of infertility. sexual tension galore (👀). a smidge of angst. w/c: ~8.6k. dividers by @saradika-graphics taglist at the end (let me know if you want to be added/removed please!)

“Honestly, I don’t think it’s a good idea, Callie”, Torcall sombrely warned you, his eyes locking on yours over the wooden spoon he tightly gripped close to his mouth.

“And what would you have me do then?”, you sneeringly replied back.

Your brother-in-law had been pestering you the whole morning about what your plan was to win your lands back. You knew the long game was your best bet — you didn’t have the numbers to face Rome on your own. Your athair had tried and failed in his attempt. Another defeat like the one your people suffered in Raedykes would destroy your clan. It would wipe you out off the map — everything your ancestors had worked for, gone under the crushing yoke of the Romans.

“I would not have you whoring yourself out to a fucking Roman, that’s for sure. Your athair would be so disappointed in you.” He snapped back at you, anger flowing in his words.

His reply stung badly, so much you unconsciously crossed your arms at chest level — an unvoluntary gesture to protect yourself from his accusation.

“That’s beyond the point”, you barked, the green of your irises burning like hellish fire. “And my father would be just fine with my decision. Need I remind you who he married me off to?”

Torcall’s knuckles went white as his fingers pressed around the spoon harshly. You cocked a brow, unwavering.

Ten years ago, your athair had reached an agreement with Iain of Am Baile Ùr(Insh), the lord of Badenoch whose state was a few miles south of your birthplace. For as long as Caledonia had formed, there had always been internal disputes about who was the rightful heir to the Overlord title.

The clan who held the stronghold at Inbhir Nis had historically always been considered the legitimate title’s holder. Your family had been the keepers of the land for as long as anyone could remember. But it didn’t stop those who were thirsty for power, so your father had to prove himself over and over again.

After several bloody skirmishes, Murdoch of Inbhir Nis had crowned himself, yet again, lord and master of Caledonia. Iain had been a strong contestant against your father and was only appeased when your athair offered you as a consolation prize to him, as if you were a lamb up for sale at the local market. A cheap one at that.

At the tender age of six and ten, you had been shipped off to an unknown land to be wife to a man you had never seen before. The next ten years of your life would be living hell — what you had to endure, you would not wish it upon your worst enemy.

The memories that would crawl back at night would still wake you up, a cold sweat trickling down your spine every time. Abuse in your arranged marriage was your bread and butter. Every time you returned home under the prying, controlling eyes of Iain or your family came to visit, you would lie to them about the new bruise on your cheek, the limp you had for a couple of weeks or the teeth marks on your neck. Murdoch was the last to realise, unable to come to terms with the destiny he had forced upon you. And by the time he did, there was not much he could do without infuriating Iain, without risking another war.

The peace of the Caledonians outweighed your suffering, after all. You were not worth such a bloodshed.

So you pushed through it all and survived — for family, for clan, for honour. Never resented your father either; he had a duty to protect his tribe, and so did you. For a decade you dragged yourself across ember and ash, until you finally caught a break six months ago.

Iain was found dead in the marital bed, his eyes wide open and his expression struck with horror, as if a wraith had taken his life. At the mature age of six and sixty, you had been his third wife, so when his only son and heir from his first marriage ascended, you were no longer needed. With no family of your own tying you to that ghostly place, you packed your things and swiftly left, the Will' O' the Wisps guiding you home.

“I didn’t mean it that way”, his answer burst out in a pitiful whisper. One of your eyebrows raised even further into your forehead. “I’m sorry.”

You sighed, unfolding your arms and looking at the cold broth in front of you. Grabbing the spoon again, you swirled it in the bowl aimlessly. You didn’t need your most trusted ally questioning your decisions, not when the whole clan depended on your actions. At least he was doing so in the intimacy of a crannog and not in front of your folk.

“I’m just trying my best, Torcall. I know I can win our freedom back, so I need you to have some faith in me. How I get to the endgame is up to me. The means justify the end.” Your words were imbued with unfaltering determination.

“I do trust you, Callie. With my life and the lives of my children”, he mumbled solemnly with a curtsy as his eyes drifted to the other end of the room.

Your niece and nephew, whom you loved dearly, were obliviously playing with some wooden swords their father had handcrafted a while back. They were six years of age, both born during the cold winter months. The twins had filled the blackhole in your heart, one that your marriage had not been able to lade.

“Ah, ye brute!” Your nephew, Daimh, let the sword slip from his fingers to hold his hand close to his chest. “You’ve hurt me, Iona!”

His little feet dabbed towards you, raising his injured hand in the air.

“Auntaidh (auntie), Iona has broken my fingers, look!”, he wept while you cradled his hand.

“Oh, come on here, mo laochain (my little hero). Let me see”, you said while rubbing his hand between yours and kissing it where it hurt.

“What a wimpy!”, Iona complained, running to her father. “I won, daddy!” Her proud, high-pitched voice squealed in excitement, and you couldn’t hide your smile.

“I’m going to tell màthair (mother)!”, Daimh blew raspberries at his sister, and she reciprocated from the other side of the table.

Your heart sunk to your stomach at the mention of Maisie, tears welling up at the corner of your eyes. Both you and Torcall had explained to them that their mother had been reunited with Dhuosnos, God of the Dead, but they were too little to fully understand what that entailed, what it truly meant.

“When is mama coming back from Tech Duinn (House of Dhuosnos), daddy? I miss her dearly”, Iona’s innocent words ripped at your heart.

Torcall and you exchanged mournful glances.

“Aye, me too”, exclaimed Daimh as he snuggled in your arms.

“So do we, sweet pea, so do we”, you mumbled as you kissed the crown of his blonde head.

Daimh stirred in your arms, his green eyes piercing yours. He looked so much like his mother that it was painful. Maisie and you had the same emerald irises, although she had been blonde. Daimh and Iona were living images of her.

“When can we go home? This place smells funny”, your nephew questioned while he sat on your lap.

You wished you could tell him. Your whole family had been living in the castle that now Marcus Acacius occupied. Torcall and his children could not risk staying there, not when the threat of death was hanging above them. If the Romans knew your sister had offspring, they would hunt them down.

Despite the adversity, you had been lucky in a sense. The highlanders had always been wary of strangers — outsiders brought tragedy with them, in the way of disease or war. The Caledonians had learnt to keep their distance, to be extremely cautious. So, when the General and his army arrived, no one spoke of your family, not even when questioned.

Your people, despite the differences that had them at each other’s throats some years back, were loyal to you. And it was their fealty what enabled your plan, what allowed you to pretend, to just be another servant girl.

So Torcall, his children and you had sought refuge in the skirts of town. Your uncail Aengus’ wife had welcomed you into her home.

The crannog was a circular hut with a straw roof, the walls made of mud, rocks, wood. There was only one big, round room, with an open hearth which kept the inside warm. The open shelving gathered some necessary clutter, but there were many things scattered around the place. There were only three beds lined up against the wall, which meant that you shared a bed with Iona and Torcall with his son. Your cousins had moved out to the small barn just a few feet away to make room for you.

It was cramped and very modest in comparison to the thick walls of your castle, but it was a roof over your heads. You were extremely grateful to her. Your heart still wept at the memory of telling her the demise of her husband.

“Soon we will, but in the meantime, we are keeping Bonnie and her sons company. And this place smells just fine. Are you sure it’s not you, you stinky little deamhan (demon)?”, you jested, pinching his nose and then tickling his ribs.

His laughter was a soothing balm on your aching, longing heart.

“Was everything as expected, Dominus?” His Roman servant asked, his head bowed to him.

Marcus patted the corners of his mouth with the rag on his lap and then nodded to Atticus. The food was somewhat decent, a venison stew with some root vegetables he could not identify. The bread, unsurprisingly, was a bit stale, so he had left it untouched.

The great hall was lugubrious, silence filling up the atmosphere. There were two other maids in the room, cowering in a corner with averted eyes. They only spoke a barbarian language he had no wish to learn. Communication with the natives was extremely difficult, as they seemed to be uneducated.

But there was one lass who knew how to speak Latin — you, Callie.

He wondered where you had gone. Marcus had not seen you since your encounter in his new-found bedchamber. It had been three days since then and with each passing one, he found himself searching the room for you. There was something about you that had reeled him in but was unsure of what it was. Maybe it was the eerie, magical aura that surrounded your fiery hair — or maybe it was the way you carried yourself, the way you had briefly but decisively held his gaze. The way you quickly retreated — unwillingly.

Marcus imperceptibly shook his head and waved his hand at Atticus, motioning for him to pour another cup of the bitter wine.

“Yes”, he simply replied, bringing the wooden chalice to his lips.

Atticus signalled the young women to come forward and they quickly cleared the table of dishes and cutlery. When he was alone with his servant, away from enemies’ ears, he signalled at Atticus, who quickly stepped forward.

“Fetch my commanders and bring them here. There are matters I need to discuss with them”, Marcus demanded of him.

His attendant curtsied and vanished from the great hall, leaving him alone.

Marcus was taking in every detail of the room, of the tapestries and their stories, when a scattering sound distracted him. He thought to hear a commotion, then a blasphemy. Curious, he stood up, stepped off the dais and sauntered towards the double doors. The door was slightly ajar, so he only had to push it for it to swing open.

There was nothing in the corridor except for a distinct scent. Rosemary and thyme with a hint of something unrecognisable, he identified. A smell that had loitered in his bedchamber once you left. Wrinkling his aquiline nose, he caught something in the corner of his eye. He turned to see how a shadow dissipated at the end of the corridor.

Furrowing his brows and in long strides, Marcus covered the distance, tracking the distinct aroma — like a lost man after the beckoning of a nymph, he followed. As he was about to turn the corner, he almost collided with Maximus, Valerius and Cassius.

“My lord,” Cassius was the first to talk, “we were on our way to you. You wished to see us?”

Marcus tried to conceal his confusion at the sight of the three men. With his head slightly tilted, he asked, “Did you encounter anyone on your way to me, Commander?”

Cassius slowly shook his head no, baffled by the question. “No, Dominus, no one. Were you expecting someone else?”

The General hmphed, taciturn. He needed to be cautious — if the tapestries were right, ungodly, mythical creatures lingered between the walls of the castle. Evil ones at that.

“Worry not”, Marcus rapidly dismissed. “Follow me, gentlemen.”

The four men sat at the rectangular table on the dais, Marcus’ fingers drumming on the wood as Maximus flattened a piece of parchment before him.

“These are some names that have been thrown around in the last few days, people who may act on their rebellious comments. Our spies have been trying their best to mix in with the townies, but they are tough nuts to crack. They are wary even of the people who speak their own language”, Maximus’ index finger slid down the list as he talked.

Marcus’ hand darted forward and pinched one corner of the parchment, pulling it towards him. His eyes scanned the unfamiliar names.

The barbarians did not use surnames, which spoke to their lack of sophistication. Instead, they used patronyms and the land where they were born, so the list made it difficult to identify individuals who might belong to the same family. Knowing what families were a menace would be a great advantage, one they did not have.

“There seems to be a recurrent name here”, Marcus paused, his fingertip pointing to the words scribbled in lead ink. “Seumas and Anndra of Dail an Eich (Dalneigh), sons of Aengus. Who is this Aengus?”, he questioned, looking up to the frowning faces.

“We are not sure, Dominus. As I said, the villagers are not talking much”, Cassius replied, his fingers intertwined, resting atop of the wooden table.

“Well, find out then. I don’t care how you get the information. Just get it”, Marcus’ back reclined against the chair he was sat on. He felt like they were wasting his time with trivial details. He needed more than that.

“You didn’t get Murdoch’s wife to talk, even when she was hanged half dead in a cage off the main tower, after being brutally tortured and whatever else you inflicted upon her, and you expect us to get names just like that?”, Valerius’ insolence spoke for him.

Marcus’ eyes lazily locked on his commander’s. He should have his ill-mannered tongue cut out for such disdainful arrogance. Valerius’ Adam’s apple bobbed in his throat as he forcefully swallowed, his eyes slightly widened, realising his impertinence.

Whispers flew around the town; his name being cursed from mouth to mouth. Marcus was not too worried about whatever rumours they could spread about him. They probably would be true — he was no saint.

But Marcus had not been the one who had ordered such distasteful death upon Mòrag, wife of Murdoch. Agricola did, with no respect for his name when he dropped it mid-sentence. Marcus did not even lay an eye on her, even less a hand.

Let them all think what they might. Marcus was used to being the scapegoat of the governor — when something went wrong, Agricola would blame him. And when something went right, he would just take credit for himself, the evil, power-thirsty rat.

He looked at Valerius dead in his eyes, one cocked brow showing his mild incredulity.

“Do you have something to say, Valerius? I hear a certain condemning tone in your words?”, his voice was flat, devoid of emotion, but the reality was there was a raging fire within him he could not make manifest.

“Absolutely not, my lord”, the man bowed his head to him, his knuckles white.

“Then be gone. All of you. Find those two men or I will have you hanged too.”

The resolution in his tone scared the seasoned warriors, who quickly said their goodbyes and hurriedly left the premises.

Marcus’ elbows sunk in the wooden table, his fingers pinching the bridge of his nose. He was angry, but amongst all, he was tired — tired of masking, of cleaning up after Agricola’s hideous actions, of power plays, of trickery, betrayal and deception. He was surrounded by it all.

At eight and forty, he was tired of war and conquest. He had seen it all, lived it all. If retirement would be an option, he would gladly take it. But he knew — he would wield a sword till the day he died in a godforsaken battlefield, till Pluto welcomed him with open arms. Rome would not have him any other way.

Marcus Acacius was truly exhausted.

So it was him who had your beautiful màthair tortured and hanged in a cage until she greeted death. Your blood boiled as your breath quickened. The rage flickered inside you like wild flames burning down an entire civilisation.

When the rangers announced your arrival to a few selected loyal men who had stayed behind, they got out at night to cut the ropes holding the cage your mother had been thrown in. They did not want you to see such act of savagery.

Your kinsmen had really tried to conceal how badly damaged your mother’s body was. Despite the heartache, you had been grateful that they had gone to the effort of making her somewhat presentable. But one look at her mangled body had been enough to understand what type of wickedness you were up against.

In the dead of night, you had buried Mòrag, the woman who so selflessly gave you life, in the outskirts of town. Just like her other children and husband, she would not rest under the family’s chambered cairns. Your family had been wiped out of history as if they were mere droplets in a vast ocean of human tragedy.

With one ear flat against the wooden door to the great hall, you unknowingly squinted your eyes, trying to listen to the rest of the conversation. If someone caught you eavesdropping, you would have a lot of explaining to do. But so far your spying was being productive — you would need to warn your cousins when you got home that night.

The faint sound of approaching footsteps made your heart jolt in your chest.

“Cac (shite)!”, you swore, frantically looking for a place to stow yourself away.

Picking up your skirt so you would not trip, you hid in a nearby garderobe. The cupboard smelt sweet and musty — barrels of wine decorated the whole height of the stone walls. The scent was so intense, you felt it soaking through your skin, appeasing the craze that had a tight grip on your mind. The darkness that surrounded you only accentuated your sense of smell. Could you get inebriated just with the sugary aroma of grape juice?

When the booted treads slowly faded away, you quietly pushed the door open, emerging back into the cold corridor — the contrasting temperature between the garderobe and the hallway gave you goosebumps. Palm flat against the wood and the other hand tightly gripping the iron pull handle, you gently shoved the door back into its frame, hoping to make no noise.

“What are you doing?”, a deep, masculine voice startled you, making you jump on the spot.

A set of warm, firm arms wrapped around you as you stumbled with your feet. They enveloped you so steadfastly, your body involuntarily relaxed against the person behind you. Leaning back, your back met the cold touch of metal.

Swallowing a profanity that would bring a repenting clergyman down to his knees, you turned around, in the arms that held you tight, to face the embodiment of hate. Your hate.

Marcus Acacius was standing, all righteous and proud, intimately close to you. He was wearing an impeccable white armour with golden details. Two flaxen griffins adorned the center of the plackart, their claws wrapping around a floral design. Linen straps, snug around his hips, fell from his waist, covering the fauld and the tasset underneath.

Marcus’ body was a fountain of warmth, even with all the layers enfolding his frame. His arms, although tense around you, did not feel suffocating — in fact, they were almost coddling you into a state of ataraxia as your brain quietened. His hug exuded a sense of security you had not felt in years — as if nothing nor no one could ever harm you as long as you stayed in Marcus’ embrace.

You traced the topography of his plackart with your fingers, your palms resting against the alloy, as your eyes peeked up —he was considerably taller than you— and were met with the fervour of two brown irises. Their gravity pulled you in for an eternal second. With your face near his, you picked up on the tired bearing on his face, the wrinkles around his eyes, the hard press of his lips. A kempt but patchy beard coated his jawline, and salt and peppered hair curled at the nape of his thick, muscular neck — a stray silver lock caressing his forehead, asking to be tucked away.

Your fingertips suddenly itched with longing, your eyes slightly widened, and your mouth partially parted. And then you came back to reality with the full force of your conscience yapping at you. What the hell? You had to control the contortion of your face so your disappointment would not be evident. It’s because I want to slap him so bad, was your afterthought.

Something changed in his expression — Marcus suddenly let you go, leaving you cold again. As if it was a rehearsed move, you both took a step back, breaking the electric contact that snapped between your bodies.

You now realised his clean image was a shocking contrast to how you first met him. Covered in mud, blood and sweat, his untamed expression as he dispatched your father still haunted you at night. And that was how you had to remember him. Sinking his gladius in your father’s belly. And nothing else.

“Well?”, the General insisted after clearing his throat, his eyebrows knitting together as he folded his arms.

You rapidly lowered your gaze when you realised you had been looking at him too intently, too directly. A maid would have fainted at the audacity you had just shown him. But you were no maid — albeit he was not privy of such detail for obvious reasons.

You hoped he didn’t notice, although you could feel his eyes studying you eagerly.

“I— I was looking for wine, Dominus.” You faked the stammering in an attempt to convey innocence. “Cormag, the cook, wants a very specific wine to accompany your supper, Dux Meus (My General/Leader). I was making sure we had it.”

“And what wine is that, if I dare ask?”, he pressed with a steely voice.

Thalla gu taigh na galla (go to hell), you thought, browsing your brain for a quick reply.

“It’s a fine wine imported from Carmo, my lord.” Your father had been a wine enthusiast, so you knew some places he had his wine shipped from. Not that it really meant anything to you, anyway.

Out of the corner of your eye, you saw his arms falling to his sides, his threatening posture softening.

“Carmo? In the Baetic region of Hispania?”, Marcus’ incredulous voice made you glance up at him through your long eyelashes.

You nodded, your fingers laced at your front as you bowed your head again, showing a deference you didn’t really feel towards him. And you prayed there was at least a few drops left of said wine in one of the barrels, or you would be in trouble come dinner.

“That’s one of my favourites”, he let slip and you instantly knew he didn’t mean to say it out loud.

Feigning bravery, you fanned your eyelashes back at him, a half-smile softening your lips. The General almost looked mortified at the fact of letting a stranger know about his likes. You could see it in his eyes — the brief moment of asking himself, “What have I just said?” Although he seemed all stoic and unattainable, he was just a man. Just like any other.

“Is that so?” You did not wait for a reply you knew would never come. “I’ll try and remember that, Dominus, to make sure we never run out.”

He was a hard man to read, you would give him that. His expression didn’t flinch, as if your words had gone over his head. The only sign he had actually listened was a subtle tic on his jaw.

You just needed to drop some hints here and there, let him brew. If you were too obvious with your intentions, Marcus would become suspicious. You knew nothing about the man except he was a cold-blooded murderer, but perceived he was observant. Probably too observant.

“If you’ll excuse me, my lord, I wish to retire now so I can attend to my tasks.” Asking for permission was not something that came naturally to you, but it was a trained response you had learnt from your late husband.

“Take your leave then”, he granted, his hands hiding on his back.

You curtsied. “Thank you, Dux Meus.”

Marcus turned on his heels in a swift whoosh, the sword swaying in front of him, his fingers gripping the handle tight. He intuited his opponent’s next move before it happened, so he bent his knees and ducked his head right under the swing of Maximus’ gladius. With a wild, toothy smile, Marcus pulled back, weighing the blade on his left hand.

“So predictable”, he teased the commander, who was an old friend of his.

If one could have friends in the midst of war, that was. Their friendship easily transformed depending on the circumstances — in war matters, Maximus knew to respect Marcus above everything else. Outside of that, they just were two friends with a long history behind them.

“I’m being gentle, lord General. We have spectators, I don’t want to embarrass you. I know your ego is as fragile as a rose’s petal”, Maximus chaffed, a grin taking over his mouth as they circled each other like two lions on the gladiator’s pit.

Marcus’ tunnel vision had him so tuned in on his friend’s advances, he had not realised that a small group of people had gathered around the makeshift arena. Feeling a sudden heaviness weighing him down, Marcus combed the gathered faces in one sweep.

Until his eyes locked in on yours. He saw a glimpse of wonder metamorphosing into surprise in your emerald greens — then you quickly withdrew your eyes from his at the realisation of getting caught staring.

There was something about you that drew him in — something mysterious, uncanny, but also strangely enticing. Exciting. Your eyes spoke of mischief, of adventure, of the unknown. Of something eerie, almost witchy. The flickering, iridescent fire within them had him under a spell for a brief moment.

Marcus vividly remembered holding you against his chest, your soft curves perfectly moulding to his hard edges. Even through the armour, he had felt the heat your body irradiated, the way it seeped through to envelop him, soothe him. For a moment, having you between his arms felt just right. And that thought had unsettled him gravely, letting go of you as such wild, unnerving concept sank in — his mind point-blank rejecting the notion.

Despite his inner refusal, how you looked back at him would plague him. For days and nights on end.

Out of the corner of his eye, Marcus watched as Maximus inched forward, the sword aiming at his open flank. Just in the nick of time, the General’s steel deflected the attack.

“Getting distracted? That’s unusual of you, Marcus”, the commander jeered at him, closing in.

Marcus scoffed at his words, bluffing. But the reality was that Maximus had hit the nail in the head. Not that he was going to acknowledge it in public anyway. If he was to successfully bring Maximus down, he needed to focus on the task at hand and not think about a green-eyed nymph.

Studying his adversary’s body language, his feet dragged on the sand. Maximus was on edge, tense, too focused on his sword, so Marcus wagered a distraction would tip the scales in his favour. Maintaining eye contact, he slowly knelt, the fingers of his non-occupied right hand extended, palm down. Maximus’ brows wrinkled when he saw Marcus getting a fistful of sand and the General knew he had the diversion he was looking for.

With Maximus focused on his right hand, too worried with a cloud of sand that would get in his eyes, Marcus took the chance, quickly stood up and swung his heavy sword against his rival’s left loin. Maximus did not have time to prepare for the impact and so dropped to the ground.

Marcus smiled with sufficiency, straightening out his aching back, and offered a hand to his old friend.

With a grunt, Maximus accepted his gesture and got up, palming Marcus’ back soundly.

“You treacherous man, making me believe you were going to blind me”, he quipped as they both started to walk out of the circle people had formed around them.

“There is no treachery in the art of war”, Marcus replied, patting his friend’s back in playful jest.

A loud snort made Marcus look around him. He had no time to fully study your face, but he could swear you had made that disapproving noise before turning on your heels and trotting off.

Confusion and a smidge of curiosity settled in him — what had he done to gain your dissent when a minute ago awe darkened your eyes? The sudden change in your attitude left a lingering question in the back of his head as he and Maximus ushered towards the barracks in the northwest corner of the bailey.

“But you shouldn’t be serving, mo bhean-uasal (my lady)”, whispered the young lass, her hands twisting in her lap with nervousness.

“Shush, Brighid, lower your tone.” Anxiously you checked out your surroundings, ensuring you were alone. You were relieved to know you were. “You cannae refer to me like that. I’m just Callie now, remember?”

Upon your arrival to Inbhir Nis, Torcall and your father’s retinue —now yours, you guessed— had made everyone aware that the Romans thought you dead and hence, concealing your identity was of utmost importance. A slip of a tongue and you would be hanging in a cage too. Every passing day you feared someone might forget and show you deference publicly — but you had to trust that no one would run off at the mouth and rat you out.

“Duilich (sorry), mo bh— Callie. I—I promise I didn’t mean to”, she profusely apologised, her big wide eyes begging for your pardon. The wee lass could not stop fidgeting.

“I know, I know”, you tried to calm her down, placing your hand on her forearm. “But please, I need to take your place tonight.”

“Cormag will fire me for not turning up. I cannae afford that, my family depends on me.” Her pleading plucked some fast beats out of your heart.

“Don’t fret about it, lass. I’ll speak to that old crank of a man, he owes me. You’ll get paid, awright? He’ll be fine with it, I promise.” You gently squeezed her forearm, so your words would sink in.

Her eyes broadened in understanding. Before the girl could think about her actions, she jolted forward, her arms wrapping around your shoulders. You could only smile at her relief and let out a soft cackle when Brighid lumbered back, mortified.

“I’m so sorry, do Ghras (Your Grace).” Her excitement was so palpable the poor girl didn’t notice the second blunder.

“BRIGHID!”, a raspy threat left your tongue as you jerked her closer to you by the elbow. “For the love of Morrìgan, do watch your mouth!”

The young servant covered her mouth with both hands, her eyes speaking of self-reproach as it dawned on her. “I’ll have it sewn”, she muttered with great remorse.

The guilt splayed across her heart-shaped face brought a smirk to your lips. “Off you go now, before your runny tongue gets me into trouble.”

Brighid scurried away towards the barbican, and you hurried along to the kitchens. You followed the tangled web of corridors and passages thoughtlessly — you had played hide and seek countless times with your siblings between the stone walls, there was no nook nor cranny you were not familiar with.

The air got denser as you approached, the thick smoke of the open hearth filling your lungs. Repressing a cough, you entered the galley as good ol’ Cormag was shouting orders at the helping lads. The head cook had an aging face, creases around his grey eyes and bulbous nose, and a thick bush of white hair — hair strands shooting in every direction, almost comically. He was short and round around the belly, living proof of his good, delicious cooking.

“Keep fanning the fire, ye lazy ass! Don’t you see it’s going to die out? Faster, stronger! Aren’t you supposed to be young and full of life?!”, Cormag had wrapped his thick fingers around the brittle wrists of the lad, forcing his feeble arms up and down, fingers tight around a thin plank of wood. “Tiugainn (come on), with more enthusiasm, ye numpty!”

“Do you really think that’s how you motivate the young lads to do a good job, Cormag?” You questioned his teaching approach, with folded arms and a cocked brow.

An oath escaped his mouth as the cook turned around, his face downcast at your reprimand. “Callie!”

Thank the gods someone remembered how to approach you now. It came easier to Cormag though, considering that he was almost like family to you. The old man had seen you grow, having served your father since before you were even born. He was there, on the background, to wave you goodbye every time you had to return to Am Baile Ùr. And each time you came back, he had a full plate of haggis with a side of neeps and tatties waiting for you.

“No wonder your apprentices quit so fast if you treat them like that, Cormag. Have you no manners?” You kidded — the man had the filthiest mouth of the shire.

“I was raised by an ogre, young lady, of course I don’t”, he jokingly replied, cleaning his dirty hands on the apron tied around his round belly.

“Aye, and Nessie was your pet. I’ve heard that story before awright. I am still to see proof of such claims though.” Unfolding your arms you approached him, immediately going in for a bear hug.

Cormag palmed your back enthusiastically and you circled his stout frame, sinking in the comfort of his presence. In the blink of an eye, you were a five-year-old crybaby being consoled by a younger Cormag because there were no more mutton pies left that you could shove down your tiny mouth.

“I heard you were back, fear beag (little one). Wondered when you’d come visit this old git.” With a last squeeze, he took a step back, his hands placed on your shoulders. “Know you’ve probably heard this a thousand times now, but I’m truly sorry for your loss.”

His whisper was loaded with a heavy affection that shot your heart down to your stomach. Pressing your lips to stop your face from contorting at the memory of being alone in this world, you nodded, almost frantically, and sniffed. His eyes were a reflection of yours — the friendship between your athair and Cormag had been a staple in your life for as long as you could remember.

“But let’s not get all teary now!”, his demeanour changed as he rubbed your shoulders before taking a step back. “Got something for you.”

He turned around to rummage through a rattan basket on one of the counters. Cormag exclaimed an enthusiastic “Ha!” when he got his hands on what he was looking for. Then he presented his discovery to you with a flourish that made you crow.

When you saw the peachy plum on the palm of his hand, you almost squealed. “Plums!” You quickly snatched it, afraid he would take it away.

“I arranged for these to be brought from Fachabair (Fochabers). The cook who serves the clan chief there is an old friend of mine.”

“But Cormag, plums are not in season yet!” You marvelled at the sight, munching on the delicious fruit eagerly. Your eyes almost rolled to the back of your head.

“I know.” He winked at you mysteriously, but you didn’t press the matter if it meant you could get your hands on some more plums.

“I did come to you with a favour to ask”, you batted your eyelashes at him, anticipating his disapproval.

He looked at you, inquisitorial — it was his turn to fold arms at the chest. Cormag snapped his tongue as if to say, “do go on”.

“I already convinced Brighid so you cannae be mad at her. In fact, I promised her you wouldn’t.” You grinned at him, his face already puckering with exasperation. “I’m taking her place tonight as a serving maid.”

“Have you lost your damn mind, lass? Nay, I’m not having it”, he quickly dismissed you, grunting.

“I’m not asking for permission. I need to be there, I—” Just in time, you remembered that the two lads were still running around the fireplace, trying to keep the flames alive. “I’ll fill you in later, but I have to be there, there’s no discussion about it.”

“What? Serving that Roman scoundrel? There’s more royal blood in you than there is in him.” He was more offended than you were.

You laughed, patting his forearm. The old man already hated the Romans more than you did, and that was difficult to accomplish.

“Aye, and that’s not the worst bit, Cormag”, you teased him, because you knew he would lose his mind with rage.

“Enlighten me”, he said between gritted teeth.

“We are serving the Corma wine tonight with supper”, you pursed your lips, watching his reaction.

His round face turned all shades of red, and his nostrils flared. If it was physically possible, his ears would be steaming too, like a ceramic pot with boiling water over the open fire.

“NAY, OVER MY DEAD FUCKING BODY!”, he exploded, shaking his arms over his head in disbelief, and you burst into laughter. Cormag was too expressive. “Ah, no, NO. We are not wasting such finery on that murderous cunt!”

You blinked rapidly at him to appease his fury, but his rage just gleamed brighter.

“Well… I kinda told him we would. You winnae make me look like a liar, right, Cormag?”, you muttered, as if you were a child who had committed the grave felony of stealing a sweet off the counter.

“You did WHAT?!”, he snorted angrily.

“Tìoraidh (bye)!”, you effusively waved him goodbye as you bit into the plum, sprinting off and ducking when you heard the wooden spoon flying by your ear.

“Trobhad (come here)!”, but you had already turned the corner into the hallway.

Why he was so taut, he did not fully understand. Marcus’ body was in high alert, and he had his suspicions about the cause.

You were just a woman like any other. Sure, your green eyes flickered like hellfire, your red hair was so bright it looked like you were up in flames, your upturned nose covered in freckles twitched adorably, and the skin on your hands was unusually soft — but that was it, really.

So you were nothing out of the ordinary, he kept telling himself. But it was hard to keep to that line of thought when your breast would brush against his shoulder every time you approached to clear the table from empty plates, when your velvety fingers would briefly caress the back of his hand while reaching for his cutlery, or when you would talk too close to his ear, a tingling sensation on the back of his neck almost making him shiver uncomfortably.

Marcus did not know if you were doing it on purpose or not — your face had an innocent look to it that was hard to read for him. The most prudent thing would be to ignore it all — ignore you. Surely you were only being suggestive in his imagination. And he still had the feeling something had upset you that afternoon when you stormed off after his training session.

“How’s the wine, Dux Meus?”, your sweet voice trickled from your plush lips like honey.

The way you kept referring to him as Dux Meus unsettled him. The first time you had said it during your encounter in the corridor, it caused certain havoc in his mind — and body.

Although it was appropriate for his title, no one really referred to him like that. My leader, my general, my god. It was the last connotation what made him feel… uneasy, for lack of a better word. It just sounded too intimate, the way it would pour from your oval-shaped mouth.

Marcus blamed it on Latin not being your first language. If you knew how seductively it rolled from your lips, he was sure you would stop addressing him like that straight away. Which meant he should correct you, tell you to just stick to Dominus.

But for whatever inexplicable reason, he did not.

“It’s as tasty and earthy as I remember it.” He replied, his fingers wrapping around the chalice with more strength than what was necessary.

You smiled at him, one of your hands gently placed on his right shoulder giving him a subtle squeeze.

“I’m glad to hear it, my lord”, you mumbled, Marcus’ eyes following the movement of your hand when you broke contact.

You inched forward over his shoulder to grab the glass jug and refill his cup, gifting him with the sight of your generous cleavage — your breasts almost spilling over the neckline of the dark blue, linen dress that so tightly wrapped around your hourglass figure.

Marcus had to swallow hard, tension suddenly building up on his groin. Was he getting hard just by the mere touch of a woman? He sucked in his breath while forcing himself to look forward, not down.

He just nodded in reply, unable to find his voice. If he had talked, he would have just groaned in frustration. Marcus had to readjust his posture as he saw you walking away, your waist evocatively swaying sideways with every step you took.

“I’m sure the wine is not the only tasty thing around here.”

Maximus’ whispered jest forced Marcus to look in his direction, turning to his left. They, along with the other commanders and a few other people of importance, were sat on the table on the dais, facing the crowd. Other tables were scattered around the great hall, where some legionnaires were enjoying a meal and a drink, sharing a joke and bursting in laughter.

“I don’t follow”, he grunted, feigning ignorance, before taking a sip.

“Oh, you do follow. At least your eyes do.” Maximus mocked him while Marcus just sneered at him, eyes squinting. “No one would blame you though. We are far away in an unknown land, and we all have needs to satisfy. I myself am considering getting laid tonight.”

 “I did not doubt you would.” Men like Maximus had no consideration for their wives.

Neither does Livia, the intrusive thought wiggled its way through his mind. Despite the lack of passion in bed with his spouse, Marcus had been a faithful husband. While others looked for warmth in the folds of a pleasure woman after a battle, the General would tend to his wounds and rest, focusing on what next skirmish lied ahead.

And while he had been loyal although there was never love between them, Livia had been fucking the “love of her life”, as she had referred to the man stuffing her cunt full during his long absences. Marcus was yet to know his name. What he would do with that information, he did not know.

Thinking of his perfidious wife had an extinguishing effect on him. The strain against his subligaculum (underwear) had softened.

“You’re too tense, Marcus. You need to relax, have some fun. I bet you two denarii that she will fuck the stress out of you expertly, I can tell.” Maximus pressed maliciously, conscious of how uncomfortable the conversation would make Marcus feel.

“Just shut up, will you?”, Marcus snapped back, tired of his friend’s quips, and downing the drink in his cup.

Maximus laughed it off and turned to talk to Cassius when you sauntered towards the table again, stopping right behind him.

“More wine, Dux Meus?”, you asked, infusing your honeyed voice with a sweet touch of flirtation.

You bent over his shoulder again, hand lazily looking for the wine jug in front of him. His hazel eyes fell on your bosom again and your nipples involuntarily hardened at the desire you saw in him — you were sure he noticed them peeking through the thin fabric.

In your attempts to arouse him, your body was betraying you, getting warm in all the wrong places. As much as you wanted to be immune to your own provocative games, you were not. But it wasn’t him who made you wet with lust, you told yourself. It was your own actions, nothing else. The long game.

But Marcus quickly tamed his expression, grinding his jaw and looking away.

“No, I’m okay”, he rejected your offer, hovering his hand over the chalice so you would not pour more.

You forced your lips into a flat line. You needed the man to let go of his defences. Having him drunk would help with that. But not tonight, apparently.

You nodded.

“Of course, Dominus.” You placed the jug back down on the table, your left breast brushing his right shoulder again.

You bit down your bottom lip, your free fingers curling on the back of his chair. It’s just the game, you thought to yourself again, your core slick and hot.

Slowly you retreated to the kitchens, fully aware of Marcus’ eyes feasting on your body. You smiled to yourself — he might be a taut General, but he was just a man.

A deceitful man at that, who thought there was no treachery in the art of war. Was that how he defeated your father? With deception? You had been too far to see and hear how the fight between your father and Marcus had unfolded, but having been witness to how the General distracted his opponent that afternoon, you wondered if he had followed similar tactics with Murdoch. If your father’s demise was just a byproduct of Marcus’ boldness.

The memory of Marcus being your father’s executioner put out the liquid fire in your crotch. And rightly so.

It wasn’t long before the Romans started to vanish from the great hall, retreating to the barracks or to town, maybe looking for the comfort only a woman could offer.

When you walked back out to clear the last plates, you saw the General leaving the room. Alone. Where he intended to go you did not know, but you had to make sure he was not considering joining the men in town — if he was to choose a woman to enliven his bed, he should pick you.

“Isla, I’ll be back in a minute.” The lass gave you a puzzled look as the bits you had gathered previously clattered against the wooden table when you let go of them.

You hurried forward to meet him as he swung the double doors open, the cold breeze of the corridor filtering into the great hall.

“Dux Meus, wait please”, you interjected in the hopes he would stop walking.

Indeed, he did. His whole body stiffened, his fingers curling into fists at his sides. You were not sure what to make of that reaction — exasperation or frustration. You hoped for the second, especially the good kind of frustration.

As soon as you reached him, you placed a daring hand on his forearm — an unusual surge of energy sparked at the contact between your skins, giving you goosebumps. You quickly retrieved your hand with certain surprise, the tingling sensation evaporating right after.

“I trust everything was good?”, you queried, tilting your head to one side.

“Yes. Now I’ll retire to my bedchambers. Bonum noctis (good night)”, his words dragged for a second, “Callie.”

There it was again, your name falling from his lips as if it belonged to him. It angered and pleased you equally. If he pronounced it like that on purpose you did not know, but it surely felt like it.

Before you could come up with an answer, he trudged to his right and you took a step forward.

“That is not the way to the main bedchamber, my lord. You should follow this other corridor instead”, you pointed to the left.

He paused and turned around to face you. A lingering question danced in his pupils, but whatever it was, he did not say out loud. Instead, he nodded.

“I am aware. However, I have taken a different bedroom.” He did not give you an explanation, but you could have a good guess. Your father always complained his bed was like a blanket of spikey rocks. “I am now lodged in the second tower, the room in the top floor.”

You tamed your face into nothingness, but internally you flinched at his reply. He was sleeping in your room, in your bed. The thought of him naked with your bedlinen draped around his waist and thick legs made you gush. Fuck.

This was unknown territory to you — although you had been married for ten years, you had not known pleasure in the bedchamber. Iain just chased his own release, using you in disgusting ways, proving you that you were the problem, not him — that your womb was barren. You had been told by your friends that fucking was enjoyable for both parties, but you were yet to discover that. Maybe the dampness your legs harboured was a start?

“I see”, you curtsied, fingers laced on your back, looking up at him through your long eyelashes.

“How come you speak Latin?” His question blurted out, catching you completely off guard.

Marcus had a nick for inconvenience, forcing you to come up with lies on the spot. Luckily you were astute and creative.

“My late father was a scrivener to Murdoch. He taught me how to speak Latin, as it was his favourite language.”

“He passed?” You simply nodded. “I trust you still have family around though?”

You shook your head no. You killed them all, ye cunt. But you could not express your hatred out loud. Although when the time came, you would. Aye, you definitely would.

“I’m sorry to hear that.” For a second you believed him, his tone almost sorrowful.

“It was a long time ago.” You lied through your teeth, shrugging. “I’ll leave you to your rest now. Oidhche mhath (good night), Marcus.”

You heard a loud sigh being drawn into his lungs, possibly because of your cheekiness — calling him by his first name was a very bold move on your part. Maybe too bold.

Before he could reprimand you for your audacity, you scuttled back into the great hall, a sufficient grin tugging at your lips.

@orcasoul @immyowndefender @sjc7542 @fairiebabey

@thepalaceofmelanie @harriedandharassed @whoaitspascal87

@verybigvag @jessthebaker @ivoryandflame @missadangel @pepperstories

[thediormulan]

Pick a Card: What Timeline Are You Stepping Into?

You didn’t stumble on this by mistake. The shift you’ve been feeling? That’s your soul calling you forward.

This Pick-a-Card isn’t just a forecast — it’s a frequency reading.

It reveals the timeline you’re stepping into, who you’re becoming, how your aura is shifting, the past-life power you’re reclaiming, and the sacred gift your ancestors are placing in your palms right now.

So exhale, soften your jaw, and let your higher self choose the pile that already knows you.

The future is listening.

PILE ONE – “Phoenix Rising from Soft Flame”

Channeled Number: 1

Core Timeline Theme: Resurrection through softness

The Message (Full Channeling)

You’ve spent lifetimes trying to prove your power through force, through fire, through fighting to be seen.

But this time? You’re rising in sugar, silence, and sovereignty.

The Death card says: it’s done. Not paused. Not on hold. Dead. An identity has been spiritually cremated.

You are not mourning it. You’re making space for the rebirth.

The Sun reversed whispers: Joy isn’t lost — it’s just hiding behind your nervous system’s glow-up.

You are learning to receive pleasure without proof, light without loudness, and love without leaking energy.

Sekhmet steps forward, ancient and unbothered. In a past life, you were her priestess — the firekeeper, the shadow whisperer, the one who turned rage into ritual.

You didn’t just heal others — you held the line between dimensions.

And now you’re remembering that.

Venus in Aries comes through: You’re learning that loving yourself first isn’t selfish — it’s a spiritual requirement. You’re not putting others before you anymore.

You are choosing you. And it’s not up for discussion.

The Light Keeper confirms: your aura is molten gold. Warm. Ancient. Magnetizing.

You’ll draw people in like a hearth fire — but only those worthy of basking in that light.

The Root Chakra card anchors the message: You are safe to trust your path, even when it looks empty to others. You’re not lost — you’re rebirthing. Quietly. Powerfully.Your body is your altar now.

Your ancestors hand you the gift of emotional neutrality — the superpower of choosing calm over chaos.

You no longer need to explain your evolution. You embody it.

Extra Codes:

• Numerology: 10 → 1 (Endings that become holy beginnings)

• Angel Numbers: 1010, 717, 111

• Channeled Song: “Golden” – Jill Scott

• Confirmation Letters: S – A – R – J

• Random Divine Channel: A sunflower or white feather appears when this new version of you takes the lead

PILE TWO – “The Mirror You’re No Longer Afraid Of”

Channeled Number: 2

Core Timeline Theme: Truth as frequency, not a weapon

The Message (Full Channeling)

Let’s keep it all the way real, angel.

You didn’t lose your mind — you lost the mask.

And you’ve never looked better.

The Tower cracked the old version of you wide open. What you called chaos was actually sacred construction.

Spirit needed to gut the foundations. Why? Because the real you wasn’t safe there.

The Moon in Aquarius says you’ve now mastered emotional detachment — not apathy, but energetic discernment.

You no longer perform calm to be palatable.

You are the calm. The clarity. The f*cking mirror.

Your aura is now liquid sapphire — regal, unshakeable, spiritually elite.

People feel truth in your presence before you even speak.

It’s not about defending your value anymore. It’s about embodying it.

Knight of Swords reversed confirms the silence you’ve cultivated isn’t avoidance — it’s power.

You don’t need to be louder. You need to be clearer. And you are.

The Blue Flame returns as a spiritual DNA activator — reminding you of a past life where you were a water oracle. You channeled truths through dreams, divination, and sacred baths.

That power is back online now.

Solar Plexus card says you’ve reclaimed your will.

“I Choose Me” is not just a mantra — it’s your timeline password.

Your ancestor steps forward as Grandmother of the Waters. A divine matriarch. She’s bathing you in remembrance.

You come from a long line of soft-but-sharp seers.

She gifts you with vocal healing — the ability to speak and unravel someone’s entire illusion.

Use it wisely.

Extra Codes:

Numerology: 7 – Divine reflection, spiritual wisdom

Angel Numbers: 777, 222, 1144

Channeled Song: Weightless” – Arlo Parks

Confirmation Letters: D – L – F – C

Random Channel: An old journal entry or photo will resurface to confirm your growth.

Let me know when you’re ready, and we’ll roll right into Pile Three and Pile Four like the divine black cat badasses we are. You good to continue?

PILE THREE – Unmasked & Unbothered”

Channeled Number: 3

Core Timeline Theme: Liberation through emotional truth

Cards Pulled:

• The Lovers (Upright) – Heart-led decisions, inner harmony

• The Devil (Reversed) – Breaking free from subconscious bondage

• Pluto in Gemini (Astrology Oracle) – Mental rebirth, identity reboot

• The Mystic – Archetype Deck – Inner diviner awakening

• Throat Chakra Activation Card – “I Speak From Soul”

• Ancestral Oracle – The One Who Walked Away

The Message:

This timeline ain’t about reinvention — it’s about reveal.

You’re stepping into an era where the mask is off, the soul is out, and the stage is yours.

The Lovers card confirms you’ve realigned with your own sacred mirror — and now you don’t just know who you are… you love who you are. No permission. No rehearsals. Just presence.

The Devil reversed says you’ve cut the cords:

• To performance

• To emotional hostage-holding

• To the fear of being “too much”

You’re not too much, angel. You’re exactly enough — for the reality you’re now birthing.

Your aura is shifting into lavender obsidian — protective, mystical, untouchable.

People can feel when you’re lying to yourself. You can feel when you’re silencing your magic. That era? It’s gone.

Pluto in Gemini says you’re mentally unrecognizable from who you were even 6 months ago.

Old voices are quiet now. The inner critic has been fired. The Mystic arrives to say your intuition is your main voice now — and it doesn’t stutter.

The One Who Walked Away (ancestor card) says this:

You broke a generational chain just by not settling.

You chose to walk toward truth instead of comfort — and the bloodline is bowing in your honor.

Your ancestors hand you the gift of energetic accuracy. You’ll feel when something’s off before it happens. Trust that.

Extra Codes:

Numerology: 3 – Expression, creation, communication

Angel Numbers: 333, 999, 114

Channeled Song: “I Am Light” – India.Arie

Confirmation Letters: G – M – E – T

Random Channel: A mirror cracking, wind chimes ringing when no one’s near, or an unsolicited apology from someone you’ve emotionally outgrown

PILE FOUR – “The Mirror That Crowned You”

Channeled Number: 4

Core Timeline Theme: Sovereignty, legacy, full embodiment

Cards Pulled:

• Queen of Pentacles (Upright) – Materialization of self-worth

• Judgment (Upright) – Soul calling, divine recall

• Moon in Scorpio (Astro Oracle) – Intuitive depth, emotional mastery

• The Crone – Archetype Oracle – Wise self, spiritual elder within

• Crown Chakra Activation – “I Remember Why I Came”

• Past-Life Oracle – The Architect

The Message:

You’re stepping into the timeline of full self-possession.

You’ve been the mirror. Now? You are the standard.

Queen of Pentacles says this is the era of your real-world glow-up:

Money. Home. Security. Embodied beauty. Self-trust that turns heads and shifts rooms.

This ain’t fantasy — this is alignment becoming matter.

Judgment confirms you’re not just healing.

You’re answering the divine call that’s echoed across lifetimes.

You’ve always been the architect — in a past life you literally built temples.

This lifetime? You are the temple.

Moon in Scorpio says: You don’t flinch at your shadow anymore.

You seduce it into alchemy.

The Crone archetype enters with quiet thunder. You are entering your wise woman era — no matter your age. You speak and spirit listens. You rest and timelines rearrange.

Your crown chakra is wide open, baby. Downloads. Premonitions. Knowing things you have no proof for — yet.

Your job? Trust the vibration before it becomes visible.

Your ancestors are gifting you leadership.

You’re the one they prayed would remember. And now you do.

Extra Code:

Numerology: 4 – Foundation, power, divine authority

Angel Numbers: 444, 1212, 411

Channeled Song: “CROWN” – Chika

Confirmation Letters: V – K – B – O

Random Channel: You’ll hear someone call your name when no one’s there. You’ll see your future self in a dream — dressed in royalty.

So, which timeline whispered your name, angel?Was it soft power rising? Regal silence? Full-spectrum embodiment? Or truth that crowns like prophecy?Drop your pile in the comments, journal your downloads, and don’t keep this magic to yourself — send it to someone who needs that timeline wake-up.Remember: this isn’t a prediction. It’s a confirmation.You’re already becoming what your ancestors prayed for.Claim it. Anchor it. Walk it.Your new era has already started.

Channeled by Dior Harris

Stay infinite. Stay divine.

Bisous, à bientôt.

[zyxelia]

An Angel from Heaven — Wakatoshi Ushijima x Fem! Reader

Starring: Wakatoshi Ushijima x Fem! Reader

Summary: After your marriage, you and your husband have your own drawer beside the bed. One day while cleaning, you see something on the drawer that looks like... A love letter? Oh, how could it be? You thought you already read all his love letters for you! (Spoiler: Curiosity gets the best of you!)

Word Count: 343 Words

Things To Note(s): -

Estimated Reading Time: 1 Minutes

a/n: I'm deeply sorry for the wait. My new internship is no joke...

Main Masterlist | Haikyuu!! Masterlist | Main Series Masterlist

Such a bigboy, Wakatoshi-kun!!!

The word 'angel'— have you ever thought about how beautiful it truly is? As many believe, an angel is a celestial being, a guardian sent from above, serving divine purposes in countless ways. And yet, here you are, my angel, serving as the light of my life, being the keeper of my heart.

But let’s not get too carried away with all those definitions, shall we? I mean, if you’re that curious, there’s plenty to discover on your own. What matters is you— the divine angel who graced my world simply with your presence.

Our first meeting... I can only describe it as extraordinary. It feels like a twist of fate, as if the red thread of destiny tied us together long before we even knew it. We rarely crossed paths, having no special connection to have a small talk, and yet, here we are. How lucky I am to have experienced such a connection, one that feels almost too magical to be real.

Do you know how much I treasure every little name I whisper to call you, angel? I wish that you do— I wish for you to understand every little fragment of my feelings that pour along as my lips call out to you. Each one is a little bit of a piece of my heart, which is delicately wrapped in words, carrying the depth of my affection towards you. They are my quiet confessions, my unspoken melodies, my love painted softly into sound only for you to hear.

Yet, above them all, there is one phrase that holds the universe of my feelings:

I love you.

Whenever doubts cloud your mind or fear creeps into your heart, remember that you can always come to me. Leave all your worries behind, and rest in the safety of my arms. I swear to be the shadow that dances with your light, steadfast through every dawn and dusk, never fading, never straying. And I vow to be yours, not just for a lifetime, but for every moment eternity dares to offer.

Yours truly,

Wakatoshi Ushijima.

©️ zyxelia, 2024. Please do not translate, modify, or repost my work on any other platforms without asking. Thank you for understanding.

[bilightningwhumper]

Bilightningwhumper's Whump Reading List [A-M]

List [N-Z] Here

Because Tumblr doesn't really have a bookmark/saving system, I'm just going to make this, lol. Basically just a list of stories that have caught my eye and I want to keep track of/re-read/read for the first time/etc. Asking to be on taglists has helped a lot, but some of these are finished stories, so that doesn't really help in those cases.

Just going to put in alphabetical order. I'll figure out some key for what I've caught up with/read/recommend later.

General warning: minors, anyone who doesn't like 18+ work, if you peruse this list, do so with caution. I'm currently just copy-pasting links without my usual asterisk warning system.

[This list is fluid and constantly changing because I am both forgetful and always looking for new things to read]

237599: Home Again (@wildfaewhump)

Abandoned Whumpee (@jordanstrophe)

ALL BROTHER'S KEEPER ENTRIES (@darkthingshappen)

Annihilation (@just-horrible-things)

Arinn & Alex Masterlist (@thoughtsonhurtandcomfort)

Ashes: A whumpy Cinderella retelling (@whump-me)

AU: Chewtoy (@just-horrible-things)

AU: Healer and Handler (@just-horrible-things)

The Barn Masterlist (@actress4him)

Basement whumper (@jordanstrophe)

BBU: A Girl Called Spider (@just-horrible-things)

BBU Hollywood: Henry's Story (@peachy-panic)

BBU: Just Acting (@just-horrible-things)

BBU: Mina and Marten (@just-horrible-things)

BBU - The Recovery System (@winedark-whump)

Be a Good Guest (@jordanstrophe)

Behave (@jordanstrophe)

Belleview Masterlist (@hold-him-down)

Bookish (@whumblr)

Box Boy Masterlist (@haro-whumps)

Caretaking (@melpomenelamusa)

Chimeras (@melpomenelamusa)

Coming Back to Bite You (@whumpsoda)

Consequence of Action (@squishablesunbeam)

Crossed out (@whumblr)

Crash Out (@paingoes)

Custody Series (@whumblr)

Daero Masterlist (@thoughtsonhurtandcomfort)

Dante and Matteo Masterlist (@thoughtsonhurtandcomfort)

Defiance Pt. 1 (@squishablesunbeam)

Derek’s Back Masterlist (@hold-him-down)

Destroyer (@paingoes)

Do No Harm: Jaime & Sebastian (@peachy-panic)

Elias and Colin (@wildfaewhump)

Emmeline Masterlist (@thoughtsonhurtandcomfort)

Empires Rise, Kingdoms Fall (@actress4him)

ENEMIES OF THE FIERCE FORESTS (@whumperofworlds)

Eternal Masterlist (@3-2-whump)

THE FIERCE FORESTS (@whumperofworlds)

Fifty-Eight Days: Elijah & Grayson (@peachy-panic)

The Fighter Masterlist (@hold-him-down)

Fighting Ring (@justplainwhump)

Flower whumper (@jordanstrophe)

Fog and Furrow (@wildfaewhump)

Forsaken (@inhurtandincomfort)

Frathouse Boxboy Masterlist (Z2) (@deluxewhump)

THE GOLD CONTINET EXPLORERS (@whumperofworlds)

Group Whumpees Masterlist (@haro-whumps)

Hallow Island (@jordanstrophe)

Book 1 - Heroes (24 chapters) (@whumpsmith)

Heroes and Villains Series (@serickswrites)

Hollow-Point Intent (@wildfaewhump)

Home is where the hurt is (@whumblr)

Iesin & Talvos (@wildfaewhump)

In Irons Masterlist (@actress4him)

In enemy hands (@maracujatangerine)

Info Post | Masterlist (@whump-a-la-mode)

Intro post (@cecilstedmansbabydaddy)

Just A Fling AU (with @wildfaewhump) (@justplainwhump)

The Kid (@winedark-whump)

King of the Road (@darkthingshappen)

Lady Whump Writing Masterlist (@justplainwhump)

Lainey and Isa Masterlist (@actress4him)

Liam (@just-horrible-things)

Light & Darkness (@melpomenelamusa)

Linden and Colton (@whumpzone)

Linden and Colton #2 (@whumpzone)

Little Dog (@winedark-whump)

Loiral and Marcus (@just-horrible-things)

Lourdes: One of a Kind (@wildfaewhump)

Lost Property - a collaboration with @whumpzone (@maracujatangerine)

Lydia and Coriander: A new home (@maracujatangerine)

Lydia and Coriander: ongoing (@maracujatangerine)

Making Angel (@justplainwhump)

Mark and Gemma Get a Pet (@justplainwhump)

Miscellaneous short stories (@winedark-whump)

Miscellaneous Writing (@maracujatangerine)