#The Little Wartime Library

[blogthefiresidechats]

Latest haul today!

I visited my local book store today and found some more books. I think I was able to get so many because everything I found today was from the bargain section. I am surprised people don’t drive by where I live and think my house is another branch of the local library……

[writingpandagoth]

Oh my...I don't know who was the anonymous that requested the diary story but it brought happy tears to my eyes 🥺 It's such a beautiful story, favourite already.

If it's possible I want to request too a fluffy and romantic story please?

Reader and Severus, both professors. At the start of their dating, Severus doesn't show much affection to not draw attention but sometimes not even when they are alone. Reader just wants simple pure things like holding hands, kiss his forehead, etcétera. at least when they are alone. The idea came to me because I was listening to a song called 'Simplemente Tú' by Cristian Castro that my mother was listening :3

Of course! This actually came quite easily almost like a deep breath.

I hope you like it.

Something Small

It started with a shared library table.

Not in some grand, candlelit way. Just two professors passing each other in the Restricted Section enough times to eventually stop pretending it was coincidence.

You taught Defense. He taught Potions. Your hours were opposite, your syllabi unrelated—but the subjects you read overlapped in all the right places: obscure counter-hexes, lost potion formulations, wartime field research.

The first few weeks, it was only glances. Then nods.

Then one evening—late, long after dinner, when the library was quiet enough to hear parchment shift—he spoke.

“You’ve been working through the Jessen archives backwards.”

You looked up from your notes. “So?”

“They make more sense chronologically.”

You tilted your head. “Not if you’re trying to trace which principles were disproven. Reading the failures first is more efficient.”

He stared at you. Then blinked.

“Hm.”

And that was the first time Severus Snape sat down beside you willingly.

From there, it became a rhythm.

He’d grumble when you took his usual quill from the supply tray. You’d roll your eyes when he restructured your marginalia. He never corrected your logic, though—just challenged it. And he always returned your books in perfect condition.

He was sharp, of course. Brilliant, difficult, constantly skimming five steps ahead. But he listened when you spoke. Reallylistened.

It became easier. Comfortable, in the way that only happens when someone matches your mind instead of your voice.

It wasn’t until the first frost of the year that it changed.

You’d just returned a stack of shared research to the library when he appeared beside you in the corridor—silent as always.

He looked... uncomfortable. Not angry. Just like he was preparing to walk into a fire of his own making.

You waited.

“I—” he started, then stopped. Glanced away. Back again.

“I was wondering if—” He cleared his throat. “If you’d like to... have dinner with me.”

The pause was brutal. His expression didn’t change, but you could feel how tightly he was holding himself still. Like he’d already decided this was going to end in humiliation.

You smiled. Just a little.

“I’d like that.”

He didn’t breathe for two full seconds. Then a tiny nod. Almost imperceptible.

“Good,” he said, like it was a spell he’d just successfully cast for the first time. “Good.”

The first dinner was strange, in a lovely way. He was stiff, awkward, clearly more comfortable with cauldrons than candlelight—but he tried. He brought a book he thought you’d like. He sat close, but didn’t touch you. His hands stayed in his lap the whole time.

You thought it was endearing.

You thought: this could become something.

And it did.

Weeks passed. Meals shared. Late-night conversations that began with theory and ended with silence that wasn’t uncomfortable. The kind of silence that settles.

Eventually, he kissed you.

It was late. You’d walked back from dinner. Neither of you had said much. But at your door, he hesitated—and for once, didn’t retreat.

He kissed you like it was something he’d never done before. Or maybe like he had, but never when it mattered.

You kissed him back. Softly. Slowly.

And when he stepped back, his voice was almost a whisper.

“I’ll see you tomorrow.”

You nodded. Smiling. Heart full of quiet hope.

But in the days that followed, that hope started to strain.

—

Dating Severus Snape wasn’t a whirlwind. It was measured. Cautious. Quiet.

He always knocked before entering your quarters, never assumed physical closeness, and never touched you unless you initiated it first.

Not that he was cold—he wasn’t. Not really. He listened when you spoke. Remembered things you said, even in passing. When you joked about craving blackberry jam, there was a jar of it on your desk the next morning. No note. Just there.

But touch? Affection?

It stayed locked behind the same walls he always kept around himself.

And at first, you didn’t push.

You told yourself he needed time. That he wasn’t used to this—being wanted for more than his mind or his title. Maybe he didn’t know how to be vulnerable. Maybe you just had to wait.

But waiting started to hurt.

Like the night he walked you back from a faculty dinner. The moon was high, the castle quiet. You were tipsy on wine and warmth, and when you reached the door to your quarters, you turned to him with a hopeful look.

You reached for his hand and he stepped back.

Not in fear. Not even discomfort. Just... distance.

“There’s a journal I meant to finish,” he said, already retreating. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

And then he was gone.

You stood in the doorway with your hand still half-raised and something inside you wilted.

It wasn’t about sex. It wasn’t about passion. It was the little things.

You wanted to hold his hand while reading. Kiss his forehead after a long day. Tuck your fingers into his hair while you talked about students and syllabi and the thousand little things that made up your days.

You didn’t want grand gestures. Just... presence.

And he didn’t give it.

Even when you were alone, he seemed to resist being touched. You brushed his fingers once while reaching for a book and he jerked away—muttering something about ink smudges.

You laughed it off but that night, lying alone in bed, your throat felt tight.

You didn’t cry.

But you stared at the ceiling and thought, Is this enough?

--

It happened late one night in his quarters.

You’d been grading beside him, your legs tucked beneath you on the old sofa he never quite made comfortable. The fire had burned low, and your eyes were starting to blur from too many red quill marks.

He hadn’t spoken in a while—just scratched notes onto a parchment in that sharp, efficient script of his.

You yawned. He glanced up.

“You’re tired.”

You shrugged. “So are you.”

He didn’t argue. Just set his quill down with a soft click, leaned back into the cushions with a long, quiet sigh. His eyes closed, head tipping slightly toward the armrest.

And then—then—he reached out.

His hand brushed over your knee. Hesitant. Light. Like he didn’t quite trust himself to complete the gesture.

But he left it there. For maybe ten seconds.

You didn’t move. Didn’t speak. You just breathed, afraid that even shifting would scare it away.

You turned toward him slightly, ready to thread your fingers through his—

But his hand slipped away.

He stood abruptly. “I need to check the cauldron,” he muttered. “I left it steeping too long.”

He was gone before you could say a word.

You sat there alone, blinking, your skin still tingling where he’d touched you.

It was something. A crack in the armor.

But it had closed again before you could see what was behind it.

—

The silence between you had grown too loud to ignore.

Not angry silence. Not tense. Just... hollow.

Like a room where something used to live.

You hadn’t touched him in three days.

Not for lack of wanting. You still looked at him the same way—still met him for tea in his quarters, still spoke about staff meetings and students and potion mishaps. But every time your hand drifted near his, every time you leaned in just slightly—he pulled away.

Not with malice. Just reflex. And each time, it scraped something raw.

Tonight, the scrape bled.

You were sitting across from him in his quarters, a mostly untouched cup of tea growing cold between your hands.

He was writing something—of course he was. Always writing, always focused, always just slightly beyond reach. You watched the way his brow creased. The way his hand moved with intent. How he didn’t even notice your silence.

You set your cup down. Softly. He didn’t look up.

“Severus.”

Still writing. “Yes?”

You swallowed.

Then, quietly—too quietly: “Do you actually want this?”

His quill stopped. The scratch of ink against parchment went still.

He looked up at you. Not confused. Not surprised.

Just... still.

You continued before your courage ran dry.

“Because sometimes I wonder if I’m just convenient. If this—us—is something you agreed to but didn’t really want.”

His lips parted slightly, but no words came.

You let the silence settle.

“I’m not asking for much,” you said, voice soft but firm.

“I don’t need flowers or sonnets or some grand romantic gesture. I just want your hand in mine. I want to touch your face without you flinching. I want to kiss your forehead at the end of a long day. That’s it.”

His eyes were locked on yours now. Intense. Unreadable.

“And it doesn’t have to be in public. I know what people are like. But when we’re alone... I want to feel like I’m allowed to love you.”

That last word nearly broke you and it did something to him.

He looked like he’d stopped breathing. Like the truth had finally hit somewhere deep.

“I’m not angry,” you added, almost whispering. “I’m just tired. Of wondering if I’m asking for something you don’t want to give.”

You stood then. Not in a storm. Just... done.

“I’m going to bed.”

You paused at the door.

“I’ll see you tomorrow. If you want to.”

And then you left. Again you didn’t cry. Not at first.

You made it back to your quarters, changed into something soft and worn, and curled up on the corner of the bed with a cup of tea you didn’t drink.

You sat there. For hours.

Waiting.

Not that you expected him to come storming after you. That wasn’t his style. He wasn’t one for dramatic reconciliations or impassioned pleas in candlelit hallways. You knew that.

But part of you still hoped.

That he’d knock, just once. That you’d open the door and he’d be standing there—awkward and stiff, maybe, but there.

That he’d reach for you.

Just once.

But the door never opened. The corridor stayed silent.

And as the hours passed, something inside you started to break—not with rage or bitterness, but a slow, heavy ache. The kind that comes from realizing you might love someone who doesn’t know how to love you back.

Not the way you need.

You curled into yourself tighter, a blanket wrapped around your shoulders, the fire flickering low. Every creak in the floor made you lift your head. Every shadow outside your window made your breath catch.

But he didn’t come.

And eventually, your heart whispered something you didn’t want to hear.

Maybe he doesn’t feel it the same.

Maybe this was a mistake.

You laid down, face pressed into the pillow, eyes wide open in the dark.

And for the first time since it began, you truly considered the possibility that Severus Snape didn’t want to be loved.

At least, not by you.

—

It wasn’t the next morning.

It wasn’t even the one after that.

You’d nearly convinced yourself it was over—quietly, without drama, like so many things Severus left behind. Not with cruelty. Just... absence.

You still saw him at meetings. Still nodded across the staff table. He gave you nothing to read. No coldness. No warmth. Just the same unreadable stillness you’d once found fascinating—and now couldn’t bear.

By the third night, you stopped hoping for a knock.

And then on the fourth, it came.

Soft. Two raps.

You froze, mug half-raised, blanket pulled around your shoulders.

It came again.

When you opened the door, he was standing there. Drenched from the rain—hood down, hair clinging to his cheekbones, robes dark and soaked through.

He didn’t say anything. Just... looked at you.

You opened the door wider.

He stepped in, dripping and tense, eyes never quite leaving yours. He stood in the center of your quarters like he didn’t know what to do with his hands, his coat, his feelings.

You closed the door behind him.

“Severus—”

“I don’t know how to do this,” he said.

Your breath caught.

He was still soaked. Still stiff. But there was something in his voice—raw, like he’d cracked himself open just enough to let you see inside.

“I didn’t come because I didn’t know what to say,” he continued, voice low and tight. “And the more time passed, the more I thought maybe... it was too late.”

You stepped toward him, slow.

“I told myself you didn’t mean it,” he said. “That you were tired. Or angry. Or exaggerating.”

He looked down at his hands.

“And then I thought... what if you weren’t?”

You watched his throat work through the swallow.

“I’ve never been good at being wanted,” he said. “And I’ve never let anyone love me without a price. I don’t know how to be soft without feeling like I’m going to break.”

You took another step.

“Then let me be soft,” you whispered. “You don’t have to know how. Just let me.”

His breath shuddered.

And for the first time, he reached for you.

Slowly, trembling slightly, he lifted your hand in his—and pressed it to his chest.

Not possessive. Not desperate.

Just real.

His heart beat hard beneath your palm.

You moved closer, your other hand rising to brush the wet strands of hair from his forehead.

He didn’t pull away.

You leaned up and pressed a soft kiss to his temple. Then to the center of his brow.

His eyes closed.

And you felt him—truly felt him—breathe into it.

When you pulled back, he didn’t let go of your hand.

“May I stay?” he asked.

You nodded, tears prickling your eyes.

He didn’t say more. He didn’t have to.

You didn’t ask him why he was trembling.

You just pulled him gently toward the bed, guiding him by the hand he still hadn’t let go of. Your fingers stayed laced, even as you moved—like the physical connection was the only thing keeping him tethered.

And maybe it was.

He sat on the edge of the mattress first, eyes scanning the room like he was still half-convinced he didn’t belong in it.

You knelt before him.

Unbuttoned his wet coat. Slid it off his shoulders and let it fall to the floor. You unfastened his cuffs, rolled them carefully, your fingertips brushing his wrists.

He watched you the whole time, silent, not tense—but not relaxed either. Not yet.

When you were done, you reached for his hand again.

He let you take it.

You crawled into bed first, tugging him with you, and he followed without resistance. When you lay back and opened your arms, he hesitated just a second—then came down slowly, one arm sliding under your neck, the other draping across your waist.

You pulled him closer.

He buried his face against your shoulder.

And finally—finally—you both breathed.

No words. No apologies. No questions.

Just warmth.

His legs tangled with yours, socked feet brushing against your calves. One of your hands threaded into his hair—carefully, gently, like something sacred. He didn’t flinch.

He sighed.

It was so quiet. But you felt it like a release against your skin.

Your fingers stroked through the dark strands again, over and over, and you felt his body begin to soften. His grip on you loosened—not in fear, but in trust.

You tilted your head and pressed a kiss to his forehead.

He didn’t move. Didn’t speak.

But his hand, resting on your ribs, gave the lightest squeeze.

“I don’t need much,” you whispered. “Just this. Just you.”

His voice was muffled when it came.

“You have me.”

You closed your eyes.

And for the first time since this began, you believed it.

—

Severus didn’t become soft overnight.

He didn’t wake up wrapped around you like he belonged there. He didn’t suddenly start reaching for your hand in public or kiss you without thought. That wasn’t how he was built.

But the trying was unmistakable.

The next morning, he woke before you—quietly untangling himself from your limbs and moving through your quarters like he wasn’t sure what he was allowed to touch.

When you opened your eyes, he was in the kitchen, clumsily trying to figure out your kettle.

He’d made tea. The way you liked it. No sugar, just a bit of cinnamon.

He didn’t say anything when he handed it to you—just watched the way your fingers curled around the mug. And when you reached up, brushed his hand with yours in thanks—he didn’t pull away.

His jaw tensed, slightly. But he let it happen.

That week, he still didn’t hold your hand in the hallways. Still kept a respectful distance when students passed.

But behind closed doors?

You noticed the pauses.

The way he’d hover just a second longer before pulling away from a hug. How his hand would twitch slightly when yours brushed his, like he was on the edge of reaching back—but hadn’t yet convinced himself it was safe.

Once, he brushed your cheek with the back of his fingers while you were reading beside him.

It was so gentle you nearly missed it.

When you looked up, surprised, he blinked like he hadn’t realized he’d done it.

“Was that... alright?” he asked.

You smiled.

“Yes.”

A few days later, you came back to your quarters after class and found something sitting on your desk.

Not a letter. Not a gift.

Just a small bundle of dried flowers—simple, earthy. Not vibrant. Not extravagant.

But intentional.

You picked them up gently, turning them in your fingers. They were carefully tied with twine. Pressed between them, a small folded slip of parchment.

His handwriting was sharp as always. Barely more than a breath.

I saw these and thought of you. I know I don’t always reach first. I’m trying. I want to try.

Your heart clenched.

He didn’t need to say more.

Later that night, he knocked on your door like always. And when you opened it—he reached for you first.

Awkward. Hesitant. But real.

His hand in yours. Just holding.

Not for show. Not for proof.

Just to feel.

And you knew then: this was love.

Not loud. Not easy.

But becoming.

[serpentface]

Question for Faiza: what does the average day for an Odonii priestess entail?

We wake before dawn, and most of us spend the morning working around the temple. We maintain the shrines and grounds so- tending the hearths and burning the offerings, collecting water from the spring, feeding the lions. And there's always lay visitors milling around the temple while we're doing all this, but our attendants take care of the general public interfacing so. We can mostly focus on our duties.

There's always going to be some pregnant women or the odd soldier stopping in, so you might give out blessings once? Twice? On any given day. Rarely any more than that. But sometimes, you'll be right in the middle of something important- it's always when you're in the middle of something - and then, suddenly, in wanders an entire troupe. And you hear them before you see them. They'll have brought every single weapon and piece of armor they own, so they're clanging loud enough to wake the dead. And you'll just be standing there thinking, well, this is going to be my entire morning now.

...But it's very important work of course, attending our soldiers. Give a man Odomache's blessing, and he fights more bravely alone than twenty without.

Once the temple closes, we usually spend most of the afternoon just preparing the amenchalme. So- grinding the maize, then blessing the maize, then grinding the salt, then blessing the salt, then mixing the wine, then blessing the wine, then mixing the oil, then blessing the oil... It's a little tedious, I won't lie. But I think this is our most important duty, in a way. Out of every rite we perform, day in and day out, this is the one that serves all our people. The amenchalme that blesses a whore's nameless bastard daughter at birth and the amenchalme that blesses a great lord at his wedding is the very same, made by the very same hands. So when I see priestesses shunting the task off to initiates so they can go nap on the grounds or play with their muskets...

I digress.

So, when the rest of our duties are complete, we end the day with training. This is mostly practicing the six dances. Ideally, every Odonii in the temple should be assembled and practicing in unison. But in practice, there's usually some stragglers. So you'll be out in the yard and everyone is following the same drumbeat, but you'll see one group dancing the spear, another dancing the musket, and then another who's already finished and running laps around the grounds just to kill time.

Our core duties are over at sundown, and we're free to do as we please. Dinner is served at the temple, so most of us will spend an hour or two in the hall, you know, socializing, having a little wine, unwinding. I like to go down to the ocean after dinner, when I can. I prefer the quiet.

Uh, so that's an average day for the vast majority of us. It varies throughout the year, of course. Things get busy when we're approaching festivals. Or during wartime. And I'm a senior Odonii and liaison to the Usoma, so-. My duties tend to be considerably more complex, year-round. Sometimes I miss those long afternoons just mindlessly pounding maize, haha.

---

Notes:

-Temples to Odomache are open to the public from dawn until noon, and closed throughout the rest of the day. The temple consists of a great shrine that is publicly accessible by all, inner walled grounds that are prohibited to the public outside of certain festivals (tame lions are kept here), private spaces only Odonii and temple staff can enter (the Odonii's quarters and bathrooms, a dining hall, library), and ritually private spaces that only Odonii can enter (an inner shrine reserved for internal cult practice that is forbidden knowledge for non-Odonii)

-Odonii-attendants are high ranking servants to the priesthood. They start out as child servants given to the order by their fathers who perform most of the basic labor (this is a very attractive position to poor families in particular, as the family is paid until the child comes of age, and the child themself can acquire a degree of security and potential for class mobility that is otherwise difficult to attain). Those who choose to remain with the order upon adulthood (they have no choice in the matter beforehand due to children being under full legal jurisdiction of their fathers) may eventually graduate into attendant positions. This is a well paid and esteemed job, with attendants managing most of the practical logistics of maintaining a temple and interfacing with the public.

Servants to Odonii are only women and eunuchs. Those considered male are forbidden from this role (which entails entering some ritually private spaces, and sometimes seeing them naked in the course of bathing/being armored, etc) - the Odonii's body is sacrosanct and an analogue to the power and the security of the Wardi nation and God Itself, and the male gaze is considered uniquely dangerous to a metaphysically vulnerable female body and thus to be fundamentally violating of this sacred state.

-Outside of certain festivals and rituals, Odonii only perform blessings for royalty, soldiers, and pregnant women. Odonii also bless soldiers' weapons and armor.

-Amenchalme is the basic material used in public rites for blessing and purification. The finished product is a paste that is daubed on the body to give blessings, and consecrates animals/humans for sacrifice. It is exclusively produced by Odonii, but used in a broad variety of contexts.

-'Nameless' in the context of 'nameless bastard daughter' means not having a family name - ie an orphan of unknown parentage, or not being claimed by one's father, and therefore not having access to and the protection of the family as the foundational social unit in Wardi society. Namelessness itself is stigmatized, and its implications invariably entail ostracization and lowered status. Faiza saying 'whore's nameless bastard daughter' is her conjuring up like, the lowest possible status Wardi citizen she can imagine.

-The six dances are the core weapons-dances used in rites and for combat training, centered around the key weapons techniques- spear, sword, handgun, musket, spear and shield, sword and shield. Bow dances are still practiced by most soldiers (given that firearms are limited enough in access to have not fully replaced them) but are no longer part of the Odonii's core retinue.

-Faiza privately ascribes to a niche quasi-atheist strain of Wardi philosophy that posits that God fully died during creation and can no longer directly affect the world, and thus does not believe that the majority of rites her Entire Life is built on performing have any intrinsic divinely sourced effects. She is very good at not letting any of this slip, but tends to frame the benefits of rites around their practical effects (ie- soldiers who believe they are protected by God fight more bravely).

Her emphasis on the importance of amenchalme as is partly rooted in sincere conviction that all* (*Imperial Wardi citizen) people should receive the practical benefits of the state's religion regardless of class and she finds the ubiquity of the substance to be an equalizer, and partly because she absolutely believes in bad luck, ghosts, and evil spirits, and amenchalme protects people from those.

[aziraphales-library]

Oh great library wizard- Do you have any fics about the Great War between heaven and hell? I'd love to see some angst, world building, or wartime star-crossed lovers stories.

You might be interested in checking out the fics on our #pre-fall, #aziraphale and crowley met before the fall, and #the fall tags, so check those out. Here are some around the war in heaven...

Obedience by Aethelflaed (T)

Before Eden, before the Fall, there was a War in Heaven. Somewhere, amongst the eternal fighting on the endless battlefield, one angel learns the consequences of disobeying an order.

Ingnition by EdosianOrchids901 (T)

Before the beginning, Aziraphale meets a nice angel who makes a star for him. But after the War starts, everything changes, including the nice angel he once knew. When he and Crawley meet again in Eden, will they still be able to enjoy each other’s company?

A Fair Test by takemetotheworld (T)

It took a moment to realize the angel had asked him a question. All coherent thoughts had fled Aziraphale’s mind the moment the other angel uttered the word idiocy in reference to the Great Plan, a level of audacity so staggering he didn’t know how it was possible for the sounds to have even passed the stranger’s lips. He forced himself to focus on the question itself. Surely he had misunderstood the rest of the angel’s comments. Or perhaps not. He wasn’t certain he wanted to know.

Aziraphale is intrigued by the excitable red-haired angel he watched speak a nebula into existence, but he finds himself increasingly in over his head as his new acquaintance starts publicly questioning the Great Plan.

The Devil’s Love by OneDapperCat (M)

Baraqiel has returned from launching a star system with the news of Armageddon. He wants to do what he can to convince God to change her mind about ending everything before it really begins. He crosses paths with Lucifer, who offers helps to the distraught angel. God has set Lucifer the task of designing and building Hell: a place where angels that don’t align themselves with her divine plan will go for punishment. She has offered him up to 1/3 of her ranks, should he find that many that are against her, but she didn’t expect him to set his sights on one of her three favorite angels. Aziraphale finds himself drawn to the star making angel he accidentally upset, but he can never seem to make him slow down enough to catch his name.

Outside of Time by PeniG (G)

God is infinite, her creations finite, and any concept small enough for a creation’s mind to hold is necessarily too small to approximate reality. Hence ineffability is born with Lucifer and language. One must speak imperfectly, or be silent. Gadreel was not/is not/will never be good at silence. Meanwhile, a happy little principality is having a tickety-boo time. Change is afoot, but how can Heaven change? Half of Heaven goes on strike. Gadreel gets depressed. God doesn’t seem to notice anything wrong. Lucifer tries to make Her notice. Aziraphale holds a door, and accidentally makes a flaming sword. Gadreel does not fight in the long night that will be known as The War. Aziraphale becomes a soldier. Because somebody has to. Gadreel becomes Crawly, Satan’s little pet snake; but how much of that is who he is, and how much is who he pretends to be? How long until he can no longer tell the difference, himself? The final pieces are placed. The Human Project goes live. Time begins.

The Truth Remains by WanderingAlice (M)

Raphael had been the third angel ever created, and he’d raised himself first with Michael’s clumsy help. Then he’d turned around and raised three more siblings, and loved them all so fiercely it hurt. He'd loved Aziraphale too, more than either of them really knew. And then, he fell. He lost everything. The bond he held with his siblings was ripped away, leaving an aching, empty void. And while he still has Aziraphale, the angel doesn't recognize the archangel who taught him how to care about the Earth. And Crowley refuses to tell him who he was, or how Aziraphale's voice is the one thing that can soothe the ache in his soul that wants, so badly, to feel a connection again. A story through the ages as an angel and a demon come to terms with their shared past.

- Mod D

[veliseraptor]

October Reading Recap

I read kind of a lot this month, mostly as a product of the holidays meaning I had a lot of time where I (a) wasn't working and (b) wasn't online and also there was the fact that I was (c) depressed and desperately trying to keep myself occupied at all times to avoid slumping into a pit of nothingness.

so this one's kind of long.

Listen for the Lie by Amy Tintera. I need to read more mysteries again. I had a lot of fun with this one - I am always a sucker for books that play with multimedia type formats (movie scripts, podcast transcripts, etc.) and while I've fallen out of the true crime circuit it was fun to watch the ways in which this book was playing with it.

The Tangleroot Palace by Marjorie Liu. I've read all of Marjorie Liu's comics (and loved them) but this was my first time reading her prose. Short story collections are always hard for me to assess, since I very seldom come away from them feeling in any way uniform about the stories within, but this was a rare short story collection where there weren't any I didn't like. There weren't standouts to me in the same way that, say, Monstress stands out to me, but they were all solid.

Pine by Francine Toon. Picked this one up sort of on a whim as a horror novel and I don't feel like it quite was, in the end, a horror novel. It was good - quiet and a little eerie - but probably not one I'd pass on an enthusiastic recommendation for.

The Daughter of Doctor Moreau by Silvia Moreno-Garcia. With the possible exception of Mexican Gothic I've been decidedly underimpressed with Moreno-Garcia's work, and this book was not an exception. I was excited about it! But maybe that's partly because I was hoping for more horror than I got. But then again, it was billed to me as such, so I'm not entirely coming from nowhere with that.

Seven Surrenders by Ada Palmer. I think I liked this book more than I liked Too Like the Lightning, but that might also be because a lot of Too Like the Lightning was setup/catalyzing for events that actually happened in this book. I'm definitely going to read the rest of the series and this is another one where I want to read, like, literary analysis of these books, or discuss them in a group, or something, because they're doing some very interesting things that would be fun to cogitate on more deeply than I feel like I can do just on my own.

Alien Clay by Adrian Tchaikovsky. I didn't like this book quite as much as I've liked Tchaikovsky's other work, in part because I felt like this one got a little heavy handed/didactic which is the fastest way to turn me off a book. But I'm maybe more sensitive to that than I need to be, and I think the question of...is-this-meant-to-be-horror-tinged-or-not means I'm going to be thinking about this one moving forward. It's no Children of Time but I continue to be a Tchaikovsky devotee.

Horror Movie by Paul Tremblay. This book was bad. I mean, it wasn't the worst, but it also wasn't very good at all, and felt like it was leaning hard on the movie script format gambit as a way to mask how thin the book as a whole was.

The Book at War: Libraries and Readers in an Age of Conflict by Andrew Pettegree. I was hoping for a book more about the content of books as they relate to war and wartime propaganda, but I probably should've read the subtitle more carefully, so that's on me. This was much more about books as a material object and libraries as an entity during wartime, specifically mostly during World War 2 and the Cold War. Which was interesting, but not as interesting as I hoped for.

Black Mouth by Ronald Malfi. Another horror novel - I've been meaning to read this one for a while though I'm not actually sure I remember what put it on my radar. I think Malfi is an author I've seen around and this was a book where the summary sounded vaguely interesting to me, so I marked it down as a title to give a new-to-me author a go. While my feelings on this book are sort of mixed - the way it wrote its disabled character in particular had my eyebrows twitching a little - I do think I'll be trying more Malfi.

Long Live Evil by Sarah Rees Brennan. Remember this post? Yeah, it was about this book. I'm not proud it made me cry, but made me cry it did. On the other hand, I'm (a) astonished that it references MDZS for inspiration but not SVSSS, though maybe that's because the author was afraid it'd make the ways she was cribbing from SVSSS too obvious, and (b) this book actually did have me when it settled down into being serious and cut some of the goddamn quippiness. Look, I'm not entirely opposed to a good quip. They can be fun, and I think I get what they were conveying in terms of character (that the protagonist wasn't really taking things in the "fictional" world seriously, up to a certain point), but they can also be very grating. On the other other hand I probably will be reading the sequel, unfortunately. So you know. Mixed fucking bag.

Leech by Hiron Ennes. I read a fair amount of horror this month and this was one of the standouts specifically because of its initial conceit and how that conceit was developed - which I don't want to say too much about because I think it's stronger to come into this book not knowing much about it.

Silent Reading (Mo Du) by Priest. It's not the cnovel that caters to me most personally that I've read so far, but it might be the best one I've read so far, if that makes sense as a distinction. The character work, the dynamic between the main characters, the tightening noose of the core mystery...I really liked this one, and definitely plan to go back and reread it. Might bind it, too, we'll see. I should finish Qiang Jin Jiu first.

Lady Hotspur by Tessa Gratton. I understand why Gratton didn't have Hal kill Hotspur in the end (as in the play this is drawing on for source material) but it definitely weakened the book, in my opinion, that she didn't. It would've been much stronger, narratively, if also a lot sadder. But ah well. Would've been absolutely slammed with bury-your-gays discourse. Anyway, I liked The Queens of Innis Lear better but I didn't dislike this one.

Winter Be My Shield by Jo Spurrier. I am very excited to read the rest of this series, which @mongooseland turned me onto by doing art for it. I don't know that I'd endorse it wholeheartedly for everyone - in fact, I definitely wouldn't, for one thing content warnings for heavily-referenced if not explicitly shown sexual assault - but I'm personally into it and looking forward to reading the next books, which are going to be difficult to find, alas. I have adopted a new terrible boy from this, if anyone was wondering.

Solaris by Stanislaw Lem. I feel like I did not understand this book and probably need to read some analysis of it to get a better sense of what was going on. Makes me wish I'd actually read it for the book club meeting about it, since maybe someone there would have a better idea of how to dissect what it's doing than I did.

Oracle by Thomas Olde Heuvelt. I didn't like this one as much as I liked his other two that I've read - it felt more action/adventure and less horror in a way that appealed to me less. It was still good enough that I'm glad I read it, and I'll continue to follow the author, but I was moderately underwhelmed - though, to be fair, that's more by comparison with his other work than it is comparison with other horror I've read, which it still outshines.

I'm currently reading Catching Chen Qing Ling: The Untamed and Adaptation, Production, and Reception in Transcultural Contexts (that's a mouthful) alongside rereading The Last Unicorn. Might try to finally finish reading Golden Witchbreed by Mary Gentle this month, finally read Cassiel's Servant by Jacqueline Carey, and maybe read one of the short story collections sitting on my shelf (The Way Spring Arrives and Other Stories, possibly). New Remnants of Filth volume and new Monstress (speaking of Marjorie Liu) are coming out this month, so those will probably make it into the rotation too.

taking mystery/thriller recommendations still, if anyone has any! I'm generally pretty good at just feeling my way around in the fantasy/sci-fi and nonfiction spaces, but I've got no idea where to start when it comes to other genres.

[thecheshirehouse]

Happy Holidays!

Happy Holidays from all of us here at The Cheshire House! Today, we merrily present four stories from the worlds of all our series — The Interstellar Sleuth, The Castaways of Ishiok, Disparate Minds, and Zadellin!

Twinkling with festive spirit, this beautiful artwork of Lotto the Interstellar Sleuth was created by Holly Lucero!

‘The Claus-Rosen Bridge’, originally released in Arcbeatle Press’s ‘The Book of the Snowstorm’ anthology last year, is now on The Cheshire House, accompanied with brand new artwork! The Interstellar Sleuth story, penned by Ostara Gale (@a-wartime-paradox) and edited by Aristide Twain (@aristidetwain), follows Interstellar Sleuth Lotto and his rabbit companion Mae as they traverse the Plume Coteries’ Library to thwart a mysterious malevolent figure and save Christmas!

The jolly cover of ‘Architects of a Failed World’ was drawn by Aristide Twain!

‘Architects of a Failed World’ is a brand-new tale in The Castaways of Ishiok, written by Thien Valdram, and edited by Ostara Gale and Aristide Twain. In this story, Abraytha and Xiantio encounter a scientist and their assistant who are investigating a strange, unsettling planet very far from home…

The yuletide cover for the new Disparate Minds collection, ‘Little GIfts’, was created by writer Plum Pudding!

‘Little Gifts’ is a collection of six vignettes around the world of Disparate Minds, all written by Plum Pudding, and edited by Ostara Gale and Aristide Twain. Due to [REDACTED], only five of these stories set around themes of change and holiday cheer are currently available. Follow the Idiots as they prepare for June's first Christmas in Avenue. 

This cover for ‘Our Bleak Midwinter’ was drawn by writer Theta Mandel (@theangelshavethephonebox)!

‘Our Bleak Midwinter’ was the first story to involve the crew of the good ship Zadellin, and was also originally published by Arcbeatle Press in ‘The Book of the Snowstorm’, though is rereleased today with new artwork! This tale by Theta Mandel, edited by Aristide Twain, follows a teenage girl as she strays from everything she knows to oppose a plan which could poison her very world, aided by three aliens on a mission to save their Ship with a broken heart.

You can find us at CheshireHouseStories on Instagram, Cheshire_House on X/Twitter, and thecheshirehouse on Bluesky. 

[mortaltempless]

Rules: use this Meiker.io to create your Lavellan (or another OC) as they would appear in ancient Arlathan – in both peace and war – and a little snippet about what their life might have been like during both. Then tag some friends!

I wasn't tagged but I saw it on the blog of @prettycozyghosty and I want to play hope you don't mind xoxo

I'm tagging @bluetiefling

Anwyn Lavellan in ancient Arlathan AU

Peacetime: This is when she is content. Anwyn was born to a family of Dirthamen's slaves, ones whose loyalty and usefulness allows them a modicum of power compared to the Lord of Secrets many, many servants. Anwyn is largely left to her own devices, leading aging servants in keeping a library outside of the main cities of the Empire.

She is good at performing her duties, enjoys it, even. She seems to know the content of each book, intuits exactly where they should rest on the shelf. A labyrinth made navigable through her careful and assured stewardship. Anwyn's competence allows her to become one of Dirthamen's Secret Keepers, and thus is privy to some (never all) of the Empire's dirtiest secrets. She takes it in stride, shoves the knowledge to the back of her mind where she does not have to think about it thankyouverymuch.

Many of the Evanuris' favourites visit her library, seeking out her knowledge. She hates it when Solas or Felassan visit. They always seem to be hiding something, and no matter what she does, she is always left out of the loop. The Wolf visits more often than the Arrow, but that's just yet another secret that she compartmentalises. Instead, she focuses on her books and the quiet serenity of her refuge, far from the politics and scheming of Arlathan.

Wartime: This is when she thrives. Anwyn is clever enough to know that wars are not won by soldiers, but by information. All of a sudden, Anwyn, one of hundreds of Secret Keepers across the Empire, is a valuable chess piece. When the Arrow arrives to take her away from her library, she laughs in his face. She wakes up in a villa on the other side of an Eluvian regardless.

Her pride is hurt enough that it takes days before she agrees to listen to Solas and his general about their little 'cause'. When she does, however, she still refuses to speak Dirthamen's secrets.

Instead, she makes ephemeral traces in the dirt. Ones in a scrawl that is only read by the Wolf. Before he even gets to the end, she's erasing it, refusing to allow any evidence of this blasphemy. Just like there can be no evidence of this madness that's followed between them ever since hushed conversations in her library. He still recognises her cautious rebellion for the gift that it is.

Anwyn cuts her hair, removes the pretty gilding that Dirthamen gave her. She trades elegant gowns for rough leathers and she has never been more filled with purpose.

She doesn't ask Solas, her lover, to tell her his secrets. Not when she has her own goals. Not when she spends her days flitting across eluvians between rebel outposts and the sanctuary of her library. Their shared revelations can come later, once the incomprehensible danger has passed. It never does.

[queenlua]

can I ask Micaiah/Sothe/Pelleas and some kind of breaking the spirit contract on Pelleas' soul, or some kind of post-op on poly set-up?

The way to unbind a spirit, in the end, is almost insultingly simple: cut the thing out.

Micaiah's been kneeling, poised over a prone, shirtless Pelleas, with a knife in her hand, for over half an hour.  Sothe's impatience is clear, from how he keeps fidgeting beside them, though he hasn't said anything about it.  Yet.

Huddled in this tent, the whole place lit by two lamps, it's like it's wartime again.  They're miles from Castle Nevassa, miles from anywhere else, camping in some little-traveled grove with snow heaped up in great piles all around them.  They agreed this would be neater, if anything were to happen.  If they needed to hide a body.  If this didn't work.

(But it has to work.  She can't lose him.)

"It'll be fine, Micaiah," Pelleas says, with that soft, soft smile, inclining his head slightly—but he's said that before.  He's said it when it wouldn't have been fine at all, actually, when she'd nearly let him get stabbed him through the heart for nothing, saved only by chance—

Micaiah blinks away the wetness in her eyes before it can become tears.  A bead of sweat drips from her brow and onto that naked chest.  It is midwinter; how is she sweating?  The cloth this tent has made of must be robust indeed, to trap the little heat of the three of them so well.  That, or she's caught fever.  She feels feverish, certainly.  She glances up at Sothe, to see if he looks the same.

"Let me," Sothe says, voice rough, "if you can't.  I'll do it."

It is so tempting.  Sothe's good with a knife, better than she is.  It would be so easy.

"It'll be fine," Pelleas repeats, with strength he doesn't have to spare.  She can nearly hear the bones in his jaw creak as he says it.  He's down to half the weight he was a year ago, all skin and bones.  Apparently, once a spirit's tired of its host, things can... progress... quickly.

Sothe reaches out a hand toward the knife in Micaiah's hand.  He moves slowly.  Wraps his pinky around the hilt, then the next finger, and—

"No," she says, jerking her hands backward, and the knife along with it.  He can't do it, she's sure of it now, she has to be the one to do it—though she can't remember why.

She blinks.  Shakes her head.  Her vision blurs a moment, but that's only a trick of the light.  She wishes these lanterns wouldn't flicker quite so much.  Her fingers twitch, but that's only the strain, from holding this position for so long.

"And we're sure about this," Micaiah says, her voice thinner than she'd like, her head foggier than she'd like.  Everything feels so far away.  "Where did we find this rite, anyway?" she asks, to the air.

"You did," Pelleas says, automatic.

Micaiah blinks.  She can't remember.

"In that old book," Sothe adds.  "The one you dug out of the archives."

That sounds like something she'd do.  She'd have searched every library on the continent, if she thought it'd save Pelleas.  So why can't she remember?

It's the spirit, she thinks, the sort of desperate explanation that would only occur to her now.  Using magic, of a sort.  Making her head and her skin and her fingers feel this way, from deep within Pelleas's chest.  Straining and striving to stay alive.

Or it isn't, and something else is desperately wrong here.  Why can't she remember that book—the shape of it, the reason she'd trusted it, if she had any reason to trust it at all? had they tested it, could they test it, was there no other way to do this—

She fixes Sothe in her sights, and goes cross-eyed a moment with the effort of it.  There's a grim set to his face, enhanced by the lanterns' orange glow.

And then she remembers, belatedly, why Sothe can't do it—the one who cuts out the spirit must love the spirit's host.  And she knows, much as she wishes otherwise, that what Sothe feels toward Pelleas is nothing like love.

Why did Sothe offer, then—?  Does he think the book was mistaken?

Or—does he simply not want Pelleas alive?

Something beneath Pelleas's skin hisses, or seems to hiss, satisfied.  Then it hisses, or seems to hiss, beneath her own skin, too.  The lamps are flickering.  The tent is thrumming.  It must be a hundred degrees in here, from how she's sweating, from how slick the knife feels in her fingers.

She can't trust either of them, she realizes at length.  She loves them but she can't trust them, not with this.  The one who'd gladly kill, the one who'd gladly die—and her in the middle, starting to feel faint.  She's seconds from losing her nerve or her consciousness both—maybe there's no spirit, maybe this a setup, some convoluted mess of a thing, why can't she remember—

She presses the tip of the dagger to the center of Pelleas's chest, just above his heart.  Pelleas screws up his face, but he doesn't make a sound.  She presses down a little, just enough to draw the littlest droplet of blood, a pinprick's worth.  She touches the drop with her finger, and that feels real enough.  She lifts that finger to her lips, to her tongue.  Tastes it.  Blinks her vision straight.

She sucks in a deep breath.  Tightens her grip around the knife.  Breathes out.

And the lanterns in the tent flicker out entirely for what happens next.

[mcd-brainrot-hours]

The Divine Warriors p.1

howdy here’s a post about the divine warriors in my rewrite. this is more of the religious aspect of them. part 2 will be more about them personally. feel free to ask questions!

Irene is the matron of healing, fertility, love, faith, rebirth, and life.

Shad is a symbol of death, decay, plague, destruction, and suffering.

Esmund is the deity of strength, protection, weath, stone, commerce, and smithing.

Kul’zak is the deity of stars, travels, land, weather, music, luck, and storytelling (along with enki).

Menphia is the deity of women, justice, wrath, fury, freedom, choice, and meifwas.

Enki is the deity of knowledge, truth and deceit, storytelling (along with Kul’zak), outcasts, and medicine.

The divine are worshiped in different ways by different people.

-Irene is worshiped by religious folk (mainly in ru’an) and people in the medical field. Really, everyone worships Irene in some way. They typically say a prayer while kneeling, heads bowed with their hands cupped towards the sky (there’s a belief that the rain is the matron’s tears, no one knows why she weeps though). Sometimes, religious extremists will willingly mutilate themselves to be “perfect” in the eyes of the matron. People pray to irene for blessing in fertility, love, life, and whenever they are struggling. She is the most commonly prayed to.

-There are still some mortals who still worship Shad despite it being illegal. When they pray to him, they often do so while kneeling on hot coals. if they are caught worshiping him, they will be promptly executed for their act of treason.

-Esmund is worshiped by guards for strength and people of power during wartime for protection as a graduation ritual, graduates of the guard academy will pray to Esmund while holding a piece of jewelry that is sentimental to them (something that belonged to either a mother or a lover) and they get a symbolic tattoo (idk what yet).

-Enki is worshiped by scholars. They often leave things related to knowledge behind after they pray to Enki (college students joke about leaving blood offerings to enki so they can pass their exams). schools and certain libraries will have shrines dedicated to Enki.

-Kul’zak is worshiped by travellers. They often pray before they leave for their travels and leave offerings to Kul’zak at every stop of their journey. Kul’zak’s followers build him little shrines at certain stops. Those shrines act as guides for fellow wanderers.

-Menphia is mostly worshipped by women and is seen as a symbol of justice amongst them. There's an old legend that once Menphia killed her own father to protect her younger sisters. Many women look up to her as a symbol of strength. women who are caught in abusive relationships will pray to her for the strength to escape. Meifwa in Tu’la will pray to her for safety from the king.

Many churches dedicated to the matron will have stained glass depictions of each of the divine warriors. They are each shown with a halo of light, portraying them as saints. In churches that date back to the divines’ time, there used to be one of Shad. Those were all destroyed, though.

There used to be churches dedicated to Shad but those were all destroyed. Rumor has it there is still one remaining. Nobody has found it.

There are smaller churches through out the specific region each divine warrior is from (except Kul’zak, nobody knows where they came from).

Tu’la has churches dedicated to Menphia and Gal’ruk has one dedicated to Enki (it’s more of a library than a church).

Churches that are dedicated to Irene will also teach about the other divine (mostly Esmund- especially in O’khasis).

The most commonly accepted and preached story of the divine warriors is that Shad was the villian and the rest were the heroes (more on that later >:3 ).

Everybody paints the divine warriors (especially Irene) in such a holy light where they do no wrong (minus Shad).

Little does the world know, the Church went on a little spree and burnt every single book (that they could find) that contained information that opposed what they believed about Irene. But they didn’t find all of them.

Maybe Irene isn’t as holy and pure as they thought.

Maybe the divine aren’t exactly as they seem.

:)

[invisibleicewands]

Michael Sheen is tremendous as NHS founder Aneurin Bevan, even if the play’s fear of bio-drama cliches gets a bit much

The British, in case you hadn’t noticed, tend to get a little sentimental about the NHS. 

So it’s understandable that playwright Tim Price and director Rufus Norris are wary of dewy-eyed hagiography when approaching ‘Nye’, a new biographical drama about Aneurin Bevan, the firebrand Labour health minister who founded the service. With the title role played by the great Michael Sheen, there is a danger of going OTT in having the nation’s favourite current Welshman star as the nation’s favourite historical Welshman. And so Norris’s production has a determinedly trippy quality intended to counter the cliches.

Billed as an ‘epic Welsh fantasia’, ‘Nye’ is largely presented as the stream-of-consciousness of an older Bevan, who is a patient in one of his own hospitals. There for an ulcer operation, he drifts in and out of the present and into recollections of his past, unaware he is dying of stomach cancer – something his MP wife Jennie Lee (Sharon Small) has determinedly kept from him.

Crowned by a truly uncanny wig, Sheen is a delight as the fiery but unassuming Bevan. He never at any point changes out of his red striped pyjamas, a pleasingly absurdist touch at the heart of Norris’s stylish production, in which the green hospital ward repeatedly dissolves into the past to the sound of wheezing lungs. 

It’s otherworldly in places, especially the scene where Tony Jayawardena’s overbearing Churchill collars Bevan in the Commons and groups of teacup-clutching MPs try to eavesdrop, moving like insectoid predators under Stephen Hoggett and Jess WIlliams’s unsettling choreography.

Really, though, once you get past all the cool stuff, you’re left with a fairly conventional drama, jumbled up. Bevan’s memories of the past come at us in roughly chronological order. There’s a definite artistic licence at work as we see schoolboy Nye - still played by Sheen - overcome a bullying teacher and absorb his local library, hungry to find synonyms for words that trigger his stammer, setting himself on the path to becoming a great orator. But the meat of ‘Nye’ does lie with relatively factual accounts of incidents from Bevan’s life - his scenes in Parliament are particularly riveting, as he is doggedly determined to criticise Churchill’s wartime government, to the chagrin of his boss Clement Atlee (Stephanie Jacob).

I understand the logic in, say, not having Sheen simply parrot Bevan’s big speeches to rabble-rousing effect. But all the hopping around leaves ‘Nye’ somewhat lacking in connective material. It’s never especially clear, for instance, why Bevan is so much more radical and uncompromising than his Labour colleagues. It sometimes feels like we’re seeing his life on shuffle, when a straight playthrough might have said all the same things, but more clearly.

Don’t get me wrong, if it had been a balls-trippingly weird avant-garde odyssey I’d have doubtless been all over it. There’s a big mid-show song and dance number that hints at a much weirder production. Unfortunately, this production never emerges. It feels like ‘Nye’ desperately wants to avoid looking like an Inspirational Drama About The Founder Of Our NHS, but doesn’t have a clear formal plan beyond that.

However, if the whole isn’t quite there, most of the individual scenes are scintillating. And there’s no sense of embarrassment from Sheen, who is magnetic as Bevan - a decent, even slightly bewildered man, who nonetheless feels pathologically drawn to doing the right thing, no matter the odds.

[danjaley]

The French Revolution from children's perspective - Some historical background

My current plotline is rather strictly dictated by economic considerations: I'm trying to show the French Revolution with the limited cast of a Sims-story. So it was only logic to take the children's perspective, who are kept away from the mass-riots. Now I don't actually know about direct sources about the French Revolution from children's perspective. It would be a great research-topic, but I don't speak enough French for that.

However, I had some great inspo in my PhD project. These are some more works of Christoph von Schmid, whose story The Mute Child I adapted as an autumn-special 2022. He was a catholic priest in rural Germany during the 1790s and when he started writing for children from 1810 onwards, he made the fate of French refugee children one of his main subjects.

I actually researched about that topic before: German priests played a central role in helping French refugees. Lots of them were clergy themselves, and then the village priest was often the only person who spoke any French at all. I do know sources from the clergy's perspective, and some of them sounded really traumatizing.

Schmid's stories are all centred around religion and morality. And he knows better than to confront his young audience with anything downright cruel. In the end, the lost child is always reunited with their family, thanks to their faith and good deeds. On one level, the Revolution provided a perfect background for this, because in Biedermeier times it was much rarer for upper- and middle-class children to get lost. On another level - although Schmid rubs this in comparatively little - there's also the subtle message that trying to abolish monarchy will have dire consequences.

(Title-images digitized by the Bavarian State Library: 1, 2)

In Der Kanarienvogel (The Canary Bird) a family gets separated on their flight. Mother and son end up in Switzerland, father and daughter in Germany, each supposing the other group to be dead. They find each other again because the son teaches the father's self-composed gospel song to a canary bird. The bird gets stolen and sold in Germany where the father and daughter recognize the song.

Ludwig der kleine Auswanderer (Louis the Little Emigrant) is set in a German village where a group of French aristocrats passes through in great haste. They accidentally leave little Louis behind, who gets adopted by a family and tutored by the village-priest. Some villagers are rather xenophobic, and there's a legal squabble over some gold-coins sewn into Louis' jacket. Later he makes himself useful, as war breaks out and there's an injured French soldier to be nursed. Louis, being French can translate for him. In the end Louis' mother finds him again, through hearing about the lawsuit. Everyone gets rewarded or punished for their behaviour.

I also drew some inspiration from Die Himbeeren (The Raspberries), but this doesn't have a good picture to show and may be the most spoilery of the three plots...

* * *

A completely different point is that in my B.A. years I worked for a Jewish museum and helped with research about Jewish children fleeing to Britain. From the British perspective, the Revolution- and Napoleonic wars are often compared to the Second World War, one of the points being the arrival of refugees. Although these were different historical situations, I wanted to show some of the trauma that came with public order turning against one, losing ones home and making a fresh start in a foreign country in wartime. I think that might have been similar to what the French children felt.

[batshape]

Fic authors self rec! When you get this, reply with your favorite five fics that you've written, then pass on to at least five other writers. Let’s spread the self-love ❤

thank you @samarqqand for the tag!! i spent the last two years finishing my masters, writing papers and proposals and a thesis etc, so i’ve been largely ficced out for a long time. but these five are my most darling works, and i will inevitably write more lesbian feanor/nerdanel, because i am addicted to dyke drama and they do it so well.

unfortunately, my two year break from writing fic also coincided with a very long sabbatical from reading fic, and i am desperate to catch up on the everybody’s greatest hits. tagging @i-am-a-lonely-visitor, @undercat-overdog, @crackinthecup, @aipilosse, and @potatoobsessed999 (but if you’ve already done it, feel free to do it again or to ignore)

now in no particular order (at least that i’ll admit), my top fic self-recs:

1. affectation: celebrimbor/annatar, t, 5k words, content warning for inevitable gore and torture mentions

Annatar knew the irritation in his own expression, could taste the disdain in his mouth. He said, rather plainly, “Celebrimbor of Eregion. I am going to eat you.”

i was taking a seminar on archive theory when i wrote this, and the idea of sauron curating an archive of things he took from celebrimbor’s rooms and personal library after his ruin of ost-in-edhil got its teeth into me. the archive building ended up mostly off-screen; instead annatar begrudgingly advises grad students, discovers archive anthrax, and is overall too familiar with his most tolerable colleague.

2. little tenderness: feanor/nerdanel, e, 4k

“Is it not exhausting to imagine abandonment around every darkened corner, wife of mine?”

feanor and nerdanel have t4t lesbian divorce sex following feanor’s exile to formenos. nothing is resolved, and arguably they both get worse. feanor’s missed character potential as a genderfucked lesbian with the same extremely large chips on her shoulder regarding primogeniture, her sons, and high kingship still regularly turns my own brain to soup.

3. letter 97: fingon/maedhros but also gen, t, 9k

“Still the question remains,” Maedhros continued tranquilly, “whether you were offended on my behalf or on yours, when you were accused of keeping a monster leashed for your own amusement.”

the elfschatology one! featuring my own wretched and reprehensible darling, an orc angband escapee doing a little bit of an anthropological study abroad. fingon visits maedhros in himring, wrestles with both his own and maedhros’ wartime uncertainties on what makes an elf, what makes an orc, and what an end to a war would even mean if they made if there. ‘so you want to understand your monstrous boyfriend’s lukewarm concern for his immortal soul,’ a generally unhelpful how-to

4. on gold, and the wearing of red: caranthir & maedhros, g, 4k

“My messengers wear gold in their mouths,” he said curtly, and his brother flashed him a brief smile. The gold of Maedhros’ own teeth shone in firelight.

caranthir’s pre-nirnaeth relationship with his eldest brother as demonstrated through the fashion trends he disapproves of, the ones he adopts himself, and the ones he actively enables. maedhros is more than a little monstrous and simultaneously very beloved by his men and his little brother both. in other words, the sharp teeth fic.

5. to my father’s house: caranthir & finrod, t, 17.5k (4 chapters), content warning for major character death and gore

“It is not a very long dream. There is a servant atop the stairs with a carafe, and one of your brothers is giving a toast, though in the middle of it the servant drops the carafe and—” He gestures vaguely. “—wine, all down the stairs.”

caranthir and his damnably likeable arafinwean cousin, until both their deaths. in which caranthir is also cursed with perhaps the most useless gift of foresight in first age history, and dreams since childhood of the various ways in which he could, would, and ultimately does die. relatedly, there is something so special to me about a man who does fiber arts and is also unfalteringly miserable.

you can find the rest of my fic at ao3 under batshape.

[asteracelatte]

Ensemble Stars!!

Masterlist of translations I did for Enstars!! (JP/KR/CN → EN)

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✦✦ Main Story!

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✧ Main Story (!!) - Chapter 191: Migratory ✧ Main Story (!!) - Chapter 192: Ragnarok

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✦✦ Events!

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✧ Magnolia [16/16] ✧ SHUFFLE * Black Snow [16/16] ✧ Four Seasons of Love [13/13] ✧ Get Island [15/15] ✧ SHUFFLE * Evil TELEPHONE [16/16] ✧ Gazing at the Blue (CN Exclusive) [5/5] ✧ Sparkle [13/13]

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✦✦ Scouts!

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✧ Holiday [7/7] ✧ Food Fantasy (CN Exclusive) [5/5] ✧ Dramatica [8/8] ✧ Soleil [6/6] ✧ Band BB [8/8] ✧ Fair Waltz [6/6] ✧ CRAFTMONSTER [6/6] ✧ Blushing Flash [7/7] ✧ Cross × Mark [6/6] ✧ Manga Club [7/7] ✧ Look Back * JANUS [15/15]

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✦✦ Idol Stories!

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✧ Hibiki Wataru 3☆ - Two Shows ✧ Akehoshi Subaru 4☆ - After School Session ✧ Isara Mao 4☆ - Halftime Show ✧ Isara Mao 5☆ - Youthful Player ✧ Isara Mao 3☆ - One-on-One Session ✧ Amagi Hiiro 4☆ - Stuck in a Storeroom ✧ Sakuma Rei 3☆ - Wartime of Black and White ✧ Sakuma Ritsu 3☆ - Evening Talk ✧ Sakuma Ritsu 5☆ - Golden Ring ✧ Sakuma Ritsu 5☆ - Slumbering Black Knight ✧ Narukami Arashi 5☆ - Attractive, Like a Flower ✧ Harukawa Sora 3☆ - Lucky Four-Leaf Clover (CN Exclusive) ✧ Hojo Raika - Idol Story 2

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✦✦ Birthday Events!

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✧ Aira Birthday Course 2021 ✧ Hiiro Birthday Course 2022 ✧ Eichi Birthday Course 2022 ✧ Tori Birthday Course 2022 ✧ Kuro Birthday Course 2022 ✧ Natsume Birthday Course 2022 ✧ Wataru Birthday Course 2022 ✧ Arashi Birthday Course 2022 ✧ Mao Birthday Course 2022 ✧ Nazuna Birthday Course 2022 ✧ Leo Birthday Course 2022 ✧ Mayoi Birthday Course 2022 ✧ Sora Birthday Course 2022 ✧ Koga Birthday Course 2022 ✧ Kanata Birthday Course 2022 ✧ Ritsu Birthday Course 2022 ✧ Nagisa Birthday Course 2022 ✧ Mao Birthday Course 2023 ✧ Ritsu Birthday Course 2023 ✧ Hiiro Birthday Course 2024 ✧ Mao Birthday Course 2024 ✧ Raika Birthday Course 2024 ✧ Ritsu Birthday Course 2024

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✦✦ Management!

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✧ Isara Mao Management Stories ✧ Sakuma Ritsu Management Stories

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✦✦ Miscellaneous!

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✧ 2021 AtoZ Christmas Date Plan ✧ Phone Calls from ES Idols ✧ HAPPY NEW ENSEMBLE!! – Knights MC ✧ HAPPY NEW ENSEMBLE!! – Ring.A.Bell MC ✧ HAPPY NEW ENSEMBLE!! – Trickstar MC ✧ HAPPY NEW ENSEMBLE!! – La Mort MC ✧ 2024 ES Chocolate Maker Championship! ✧ Café Cinnamon Official Recipe Book - Sakuma Ritsu Interview ✧ Enstars Memories Road - Class 2-B

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✦✦ Lyrics!

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✧ Moonlight Disco - Getto Spectacle ✧ Castle of My Heart - Knights ✧ Acanthe - Valkyrie ✧ No name yet - Double Face ✧ A little bit UP!! - Switch ✧ Daydream×Reality - Trickstar ✧ Or the Beautiful Golden Drop - Knights ✧ Shukufuku no Library - Valkyrie ✧ Amor Vincit Omnia - Itsuki Shu ✧ Black Out See Saw - ALKALOID ✧ SOLID SOUL - Amagi Hiiro ✧ Resurrection of Soul - UNDEAD ✧ Kimi to Mimei ni, - Hidaka Hokuto ✧ EverySing for You - Akehoshi Subaru ✧ Glasses Hopper!! - Yuuki Makoto ✧ Tokimeki Share - Isara Mao ✧ My Sunshine, You're Moonlight - Sakuma Ritsu ✧ Foolish Alien - Crazy:B ✧ Soushitsu Guui -LOST BALLADE- - M∀N∀

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✦✦ Proofreading!

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✧ Setsubun Festival ✧ Dance of the White Tiger ✧ Keito Lecture ✧ Jingle Bells ✧ Atlantis

✧ Sakuma Rei 4☆ - Coffin Dilemma

[randomgirl005]

~ The little wartime library ~

Hi! So, the first book I read this year, was The little wartime library by Kate Thompson, I enjoyed this book a lot, so here I leave my review, hope you like it!📚💫

I must say that it's one of those books you can't stop reading until you finish it.

Based on true events, it tells the story of the little underground library in Bethnal Green—a library that, as the book narrates, helped many people escape the harsh reality of World War II.

It not only talks about this small underground library but also introduces its two main characters, two women, Ruby Munroe and Clara Button—best friends with their own individual stories, yet sharing a common passion for the library and all it represents.

Throughout the book, we learn about our protagonists' stories and the situation of women during that time. Despite everything, they forge ahead, supporting each other and facing the adversities of the era.

Highly recommended reading!

[anyashepheard]

Hi! Could I request a female Hufflepuff reader x Harry Potter fic based around the song Travelin Soilder by the Dixie Chicks? :D

Travelin' Soldier

Harry Potter x Fem!Reader (hufflepuff) Genre: romantic wartime drama with elements of angst and hurt/comfort. word count: 1287 CONTROL CENTRE - where you can find everything about my blog including masterlists

The corridors of Hogwarts had never felt so empty before.

I followed them silently, with a Hufflepuff scarf wrapped tightly around my neck - even if it did little to nothing to the coldness of the corridors.

The war has taken so many even in the safest place in the wizarding world. The halls that were once full of children and professers are now haunted by the past.

During times like these I always thought of of him.. of Harry.

My fingers instinctively went to the folded letter in my pocket, it's the last letter hes sent me - we have been writing eachother ever since he left at the beggining of the year, its been almost six months since i last saw him; six months since the war took him from me.

These letters are like my lifeline, it's the only little piece i have of him nowadays..

My dearest, Y/N, I wish I could tell you everything, but I can't - You know i can't. Just know that I'm safe now, I'm with Ron and Hermione and we're making good progress. We are slow but we're getting there. I think about you so much, so incredibly much. Everything is on me but when things get bad and i feel like i cant go on, I think about being with you at the greenhouses - the way your smile was so beautiful when you said you liked the quiet too. I miss that - I miss you. Please stay safe Y/N. - Yours forever, Harry

As i folded the letter and put it to my chest i closed my eyes and imagined his face - I could see him so clearly; his messy hair that always fell into his beutiful green eyes, the way his glasses looked, the way he would smile softly at me..

it feels like a lifetime ago when we first met properly - the evening in the Great Hall; Harry looked so tired and anxious. He asked me to sit with him and i didnt hesitate.

i wasnt like everyone else i saw him as Harry, as a person, not like "The Chosen One"

It had started out slow. Small conversations here and there, sitting in the library or on the edge of the Quidditch pitch when I needed a break from the chaos of school life. I learned that he liked quiet, the same way that I did. That sometimes everything was suffocating, and sitting with me helped him breathe.

I didn't expect it to grow into anything more than a good friendship but it did. By the time the war had come knocking at Hogwarts’ doors, I finally realized how much he meant to me, how much I cared for him. But before either of us could do anything about that fact he had to leave leaving behind only letters and hope.

A few months earlier...

“Do you have to go?”

It had been a stupid question, but I just couldn’t help myself. I was standing with Harry in the shadows of the garden by the greenhouses, away from the prying eyes of everybody else. He pulled me there just before he had to leave.

“I do,” he said softly, his hand brushing my cheek. “You know I do.”

I swallowed the lump in my throat, trying to keep the tears from falling. “I know. I just… I don’t want you to.”

His eyes softened, and he leaned his forehead against mine, his breath warm against my skin. “I don’t want to leave you either, Y/N.”

We stayed like that for a long moment, the world around us falling away. The war, the fear, the uncertainty—all of it disappeared when he was close like this. But reality always had a way of crashing back in.

“I’ll write to you,” he promised, pulling back just enough to look me in the eyes. “I’ll find a way.”

“I’ll wait,” I whispered “Just… come back to me, Harry. Please.”

He pressed a kiss to my forehead, lingering there for a heartbeat before stepping back. “I will.”

And with that, he was gone.

Back in the present...

The days at Hogwarts were long without him.

i threw myself into studying but the war was all i could really think about. The news that filtered in from the outside was rarely good, and every time I heard of another attack, my heart ached thinking something happened. Was Harry there? Was he hurt? Would I ever see him again?

I reread his letters, they were few and far apart but it was still something i could cling on to, they were a reminder he was still out there fighting. I couldn’t help but feel helpless, stuck at Hogwarts while he was out risking his life. But there was nothing I could really do, except wait and hope for the best.

The final letter…

I didn’t know it at the time, but the last letter Harry sent me would be the last one I’d receive before everything changed.

It arrived in the middle of the night, delivered by a small, tired-looking owl. I rushed to open it, my heart pounding in my chest as I unfolded it.

my dearest, Y/N, This might be the last letter I can send for a while. Things are getting more dangerous, and I don’t want to put you in any more risk than you already are. I wish I could tell you everything, but it’s not safe. Just know that we’re getting closer. I can feel it. It won’t be much longer now. I think about you all the time. When this is over… when Voldemort is gone… I want to see you again. I want to sit with you by the greenhouses and talk about everything that doesn’t matter. I want to just be Harry, with you. Stay safe. I’ll come back to you. Yours forever, Harry.

Tears blurred my vision as I read the letter. My heart ached at the heavy words on the parchment. I didn’t know when I would hear from him again. Or if I ever would..

The Battle of Hogwarts...

The night of the battle came without warning.

Hogwarts was under siege, the castle shaking as Death Eaters and their allies stormed the grounds. I joined the fight, my wand clenched tightly in my hand as I fought alongside my friends and professors.

In the chaos, I barely had time to think. But then I saw him.

Harry.

He was alive, but barely. His face was pale, his eyes dull with exhaustion and pain, but he was fighting, just as he always had. My heart soared at the sight of him, but there was no time for relief. The battle raged on, and we fought with everything we had.

It wasn’t until the end, after Voldemort had fallen, that I finally found him again. He was standing in the middle of the rubble, staring at the broken remains of the castle, his expression unreadable.

I approached him slowly, my heart in up in my throat.

“Harry?”

He turned at the sound of my voice, and when his eyes met mine, the weight of everything he had been through hit me all at once. Without thinking, I rushed to him, wrapping my arms around him in an embrace.

He held me just as tightly, burying his face in my hair.

“I came back,” he whispered, his voice rough with emotion. “I told you I would.”

I pulled back just enough to look into his eyes, tears streaming down my cheeks.

“You did,” i said softly, my voice breaking. “You did.”

And for the first time in what felt like forever, i allowed myself to believe that everything might just be okay.

A/N : im so sorry this took so long i had so much on my plate this week but i hope you like it 😭 I HAVE FUCKIN CARPEL TUNNEL HELP HOW DO I GET RID OF IT LOL?