#Trade Moulding

[ridatcompany]

[jamminvroomvroom]

adrenaline, baby.

ln x wife!reader

ahahaha i couldn’t help myself. wrote this at godspeed (20 mins) and i’m not even sorry. not my finest work but i could not care less this is peak brainrot (waving at you @lavenderlando). feral is the only word on my mind at this time. gg lando.

warnings: listen it’s porn with minimal plot. minors dni i am so serious!! 18+, smut, fluff, breeding kink, implied overstimulation, mentions of pregnancy, marriage, it’s just unhinged idk

your back couldn’t have hit the bed soon enough, touch starved bodies moulding into the cloud-like mattress. you’d waited all weekend to get him on top of you, and now that the stress of the race weekend had melted away, you’d been able to put the do not disturb sign to good use.

lando’s adrenaline rush had sent him feral.

he hadn’t stopped touching you since he’d been able to, practically dragging you through the mexican paddock, into the car, through the door of your hotel suite. he’d attended to his race duties and now lando had a wife to attend to.

six months of married bliss meant one thing: a lot of sex in a lot of places. you didn’t know how to keep you hands off of one another, proud of yourselves for making it behind closed doors this time. it meant you could take your time, that he could take you apart just how he liked to, and that’s what he did.

“c’mon, baby. need you nice and ready for me.” lando muttered into your neck, punctuating his words with a kiss below your ear. he had two fingers working in and out of you, curling deliciously against your walls. “did all of those overtakes, and then i did them again. now, m’gonna make you come for me again and again.”

he was a man, possessed.

a strangled cry tore from the back of your throat, zero regard for the neighbouring rooms as you fell apart, spasming into the white bed linen. lando didn’t stop, fucking you through the waves of pleasure until tears pricked your eyes and you were squirming away from him.

there wasn’t a second to recover, his curls tickling your thighs as he slotted between your legs, tongue lapping up the mess he’d just made. your ears were ringing, eyes squeezed shut, thrashing hard before your body dissolved completely under his touch. you couldn’t figure out where the pleasure started and where it ended, all you knew was that your second orgasm was approaching faster than lando has made up all those race positions.

“oh my god.” you repeated over and over like a prayer, blindly tipping over the edge, his tongue stroking your clit while his fingers coaxed you to your second release.

“i’m not done with you, baby. gonna fill you up again, just like you keep asking me to.” lando groaned, scaling up your body. you shuddered at his words, your body set on fire. it was a sort of given, at this point, that you were trying. or, to put it more accurately, not not trying. it did something to you, the idea of him letting loose, not a single barrier between your intertwined bodies, and he loved it as much as you did.

a litter of soothing kisses were placed up your throat, before he reached your lips, his own slotting over yours. it was messy, passionate, quiet whimpers being traded between you as he found his rightful place between your parted thighs. your legs were hooked over his hips, pulling him in, the tip of his cock painting over your folds. and then he was inside of you, slick bodies at one, and a switch in him flipped.

lando went deep, rocking into you like it was the last time. it definitely wouldn’t be. he could have left an imprint of your body in the mattress, holding you down as he ruined you. it was desperate, new urges unlocked in him since you’d started this new venture in the bedroom, no limits. you couldn’t keep up with him, letting him do all the work, just how he liked it. and you fucking loved it.

all you could do was clamp down on him, a beautiful mess at his mercy, his name chanted into the room. everything was hazy, nothing, there was only him and you. you arched into him, clawing at the bronzed, glowing skin of his lean back, eyes rolling in your skull at the way his muscles felt as they tensed under your touch.

“one more for me, baby, one more for now and i’ll give you what you want. gonna make me a daddy?” lando’s breath fanned your face as he spoke, watching with a smirk at the way you absolutely lost it.

you were sobbing when you came, the aftershocks continued by the way you felt him reach his own release. white heat pricked your skin and you collapsed even further into the bed, wrecked beneath him. you were grinning lazily, panting hard, eyes shut from the exhaustion. lando kissed away the tear tracks, residing inside you as you both came down from the high.

the air changed drastically, softer, intimate. he found your lips again, gentle this time, affectionate pecks reviving you.

“you okay, my love?” lando whispered. you breathed a laugh.

“you’re too good to me.” your voice was raspy, your vocal chords shot from a weekend of screaming his name in every possible context. “proud of you, honey.”

lando hummed softly, grateful for your praise. he scanned your face, an angelic glow gracing your features. his beautiful wife.

“gonna get you cleaned up.” he went to roll off of you, but your legs tightened around his waist.

“not yet. wanna stay like this for a minute.” your voice was laced with sleep, and lando couldn’t help but smile.

“this might have been the time, y’know.” lando’s words came out excitedly, unable to contain his delight at the idea of having a family. your family.

“and even if it wasn’t, i don’t mind the free practice.” you teased, but the giddy feeling in the pit of your stomach told you something, and so did the test you took four weeks later.

-

idk what came over me idk what happened lol. bye.

[captain-huggy-bear]

comforting Quinn after one the awful games the canucks have had as of late

Oh he's had a rough time of it lately our Captain but I do feel like we're on the way up! Winning streak here we come! Fingers crossed, anyway!

The way Quinn storms into the apartment is the first sign that he's taking this run of bad luck hard, that this most recent loss has finally caused him to snap. The door is slammed open, slammed shut, his shoes are practically thrown off, he's stomping around like the entire world is against him. The way he pulls open the fridge is so harsh the door creaks.

All it takes is one little thing, the way a red pepper falls out of the fridge and rolls across the floor when Quinn's going to get something for dinner, for him to lose it a little.

"It's fucking bullshit!" You're watching silently from the couch, the way his shoulders heave, tense, so tense all the muscles in his back are pulled taunt, the way his head falls onto the fridge door, how his hands clench into fists, unclench, and clench again.

Quinn's not an angry person, he's not a yeller or a fighter. He's calm, collected, but sometimes it's all too much. You know he's not yelling about the pepper. He's yelling because this recent loss in a string of losses is the last straw, because he's fed up of carrying his team, because he's fed up of the disappointed fans, the stress of potential trades, all the bullshit and drama when he just wants to play good hockey.

There's not really any words that can help, you know that, so you don't say anything. You just pad across from the living area into the kitchen on quiet feet and slide your arms around his waist from behind. Your cheek presses into the middle of his back while you press as close to him as possible.

At first he seems to tense more and you consider pulling back, maybe this isn't what he needs right now and that's okay. But, when you start to loosen your grip Quinn's shoulders slump, tension leaving even as he grips your arms around his waist and pulls you back tight against him, like the thought of you walking away is too much.

"I love you, y'know? Even if things aren't going well, that's not going to change..." It's the only thing you can think to say as Quinn's forehead rests against the close fridge door, as you mould yourself to his back in an effort to provide some sense of support, some sense of belonging.

You've never seen Quinn cry, but this changes it all. Maybe it's the reassurance, maybe the love in your voice or just the fact that he feels like a failure of a captain, like he can't bring his own team together into a cohesive unit. Whatever it is, he cries in front of you for the first time, shoulders shaking silently as he sniffles and tries to wipe the tears away frantically before you can see them.

"This is so fucking stupid," You know he's talking about crying over the losses and you hate that he thinks it's stupid because it's not. His words are what have you turning him around so that you can see his face, the way his green eyes are red rimmed and water, the wet tracks that run over his cheeks.

"Quinn...it's not stupid. You're allowed to be upset. To be angry. You work so hard for this team...I get it, it feels like it's not paying off...not going your way..." You cup his face in your hands, his short beard scratching your palms as your fingers brush away some of the wetness on his cheeks, brushing away at each new tear that trickles out against his wishes, wetting his long lashes. "I don't know when it'll get better, when the wins will come in, but they will. You work so hard, it'll happen...you just gotta keep holding on a little longer,"

"Fuck..." His forehead falls against yours, leaning down as he moves into you, it's like he's trying to take some of your strength and you wish you could give him it all. Wish you could take every ounce of frustration, anger and sadness he was feeling and weather the storm for him.

His braced hand comes to your waist and you're careful when you put your hand over top of it, but it's intentional as you start the conversation you've been avoiding for weeks.

"You need to start looking after yourself more first. Starting with not playing with this hand until it's better." The way he looks down at you says it all, that he hates the idea, but you know better. Each day his hand isn't getting better, each game he's more worn down. He's going to break himself in two, he's going to cause permanent damage if he's not careful.

"But..."

"But?"

"We'll lose if I don't play...or lose worse anyway," the last bit muttered under his breath with derision, at the fact that even when he's on the ice the wins aren't coming...and when he's not? Oh, it's a whole lot worse.

"Maybe you need to have more faith in them, the guys are good...yeah, you're amazing, you're the best player on that team, but maybe you need to trust that they'll pull through for you? Maybe they need to feel like you can rely on them." Your hands slip from his cheeks, arms sliding to wrap around his neck gently, chest to chest, feet bumping against each other as you sway in the kitchen.

"I just...I don't want to sit out." You know Quinn doesn't. The idea of not playing hockey is like a nightmare to him, but you also know that makes him a bad judge of his own health, his own tolerance, when to quit. Sometimes he needs a reminder.

"I know you don't, baby...you live and breathe hockey...but I'm scared," The look he gives you is startled, like Quinn couldn't comprehend that his behaviour had any impact on you, his arms tightening around your waist as if that might protect you from your own feelings, "I'm scared you're going to permanently hurt yourself, Quinn...please, just...take some time off games."

There's a long pause where Quinn watches you, as if he's trying to figure out if you're truly scared for his wellbeing. Whatever he must see must confirm it for him, that you're worried about him, because as he slides his hands up your spine in a gentle, soothing caress, he agrees.

"Okay."

"Thank you..." You really do mean it. You're worried about him, day and night, but especially whenever he picks up a stick at the moment. Always waiting for the call that tells you he's done something permanent, hurt something beyond repair.

"I love hockey...but I love you more, baby." He hates the idea of sitting out on games, but he hates the idea of you worrying more, of the fear in your eyes at the prospect he's not resting properly, hurting himself more. If taking a few games off will make you feel better? He can do it...the team can't get much worse at the moment anyway.

[vvampirelust]

thinking about hooking up with shane mccutcheon…

warnings: smut, top!shane, fingering (r!receiving), thigh riding (kinda), dirty bathrooms, not proof read

It’s typical. 

“Can I bum one?” that gravel-like voice asks the question which started it all. Your eyes flick from your freshly-lit cigarette to her. Holy shit. Instinctive alarm bells blare at the mere sight of her. She was hot. hot . hot. The straight-up definition of heartbreaker right before your eyes. And she had sauntered over to you, with a lilt of allure in her tone and a darkness in her half covered eyes, framed by the shaggy locks both jutting out and poking against her face. 

You take a drag yourself whilst digging out the pack from your pocket and handing it over to the strangely attractive stranger. “Thank you,” she nods, “Really. What’s your name?” the stranger asks, taking out a cigarette and pressing the end between her lips. You tell her without a second thought and her expression softens instantly. It’s a well performed move. Almost unnoticeable. That smile is so convincing, it's as if this girl has fallen in love simply by hearing your name. And who knows, maybe she has. At least for the moment.  Any other instance and you would have obeyed the waving red flag above her head. But tonight, it seems to be working for you. “That’s very pretty.  Suits you” she flirts, trading the pack with your lighter. Skin meets skin for a wavering moment. “I’m Shane.” 

Oh, yeah. Even if you wind up as just another name in an endless cycle, you couldn’t find it in you to care. 

It's fitting. 

The dimly lit, sleazy, bathroom of the bar you were outside. The countless cell phone numbers and names stained on the previously dull walls give a hint into the amount of sins committed inside this bathroom. If only walls could talk. 

You hope this sin is cherished. 

Shane presses you against the nearest surface found since stumbling through the door. Her hands shamelessly wander your body, running up your back, squeezing your waist, hoisting your thigh up to rest at her hip. “You want this?” she breathes against the corner of your mouth. You nod as you let out a sigh of her name. Sweet on your lips. A hushed secret. Your hands run up Shane’s clothed chest, circling her shoulders on your fingers path into her hair. Shane hums,  eyes seeking yours at the call of her name, so attentive in their search of your expression. 

“Please kiss me.” 

You watch Shane’s mouth curl like the flick of a cat's tail. She’s looking at your own mouth, leaning closer in search of the feeling of your lips. Shane kisses you hungrily, expertly. Her lips are surprisingly soft, and warm suckling on your bottom lip, tongue peeking out, already desperate for more. She wastes no time in sliding her tongue into your mouth, moaning lustfully when you meet her with a fierce passion. 

Tongues dance and swap spit as Shane pushes your dress up around your hips, fingers teasingly skimming the skin above your lacy waistband. Your fingers tug on her hair, eliciting more huffs to mould with your breathy whines. “Mm fuck” Shane mutters,  saliva connecting your mouths as she tilts her head down; Shane’s eyes dart continuously between your face and her hand sliding into your panties, “You’re so fuckin’ hot, and wet.” She cups your cunt, gasping in unison with you, “S’that for me?” 

Your chin dips, burying your face into Shane’s neck. You pepper kisses across her skin, becoming hooked onto her scent while playfully mumbling, “No shit.” In truth, you’re shielding your composure, breath not-so-secretly hitching as Shane’s long, slender finger teases your hole in slow circles, tempting you with the fantasy of her just stuffing you. 

Shane doesn’t seem too pleased with your response, chuckling softly, “Oh, is that how it is?” she asks with a layer of sass within her tone. You spot a foxy smirk on her lips, looking up at her with hazy eyes as Shane sinks two fingers into your cunt, cooing “yeah?” her voice rasps in a way that makes your tummy flutter, clenching tightly. And she can feel it. 

Hot breath fans over Shane’s neck - casting a shiver down her spine - as you moan loudly, latching your teeth into her as if you were a vampire. She sets off at a relentless pace, finger-fucking you in the bar bathroom the way she’s expected to. 

There’s no denying, she knows what she’s doing. 

It’s evident in the amount of pleasure pulsing….everywhere. Shane’s hips rut in time with the pace of her thrusts, making the experience that much more overwhelming. Small whines escape as you pant against her neck, tongue lapping in the motions of a french kiss. 

The sounds are driving her insane. Shane’s clit throbs in her too tight jeans, out of time with the pulsing of your silky walls around her fingers. Non-stop feeling. Shane huffs, shuffling her feet around yours so that she can rut her crotch against your thigh, allowing her jeans to squeeze her nub perfectly. “Ah- shit!” 

As your head falls back, your hand drops down to grope at Shane, cupping where the crease of her ass and her thigh meet. Shane chases you, lips finding yours once again to feel your pathetic moans passing into her mouth. Her thumb is bent at just the right angle in her palm to rub your clit as she curls and pushes her fingers deeper into you. If it causes any discomfort, she shows no sign of it. Too focused on making you reach your peak. 

She sucks on your tongue, savouring your taste in her mouth. It's messy.  Frantic. Slutty.  but it's winding you both up faster than you thought possible. You subconsciously rise onto your tiptoes, tingling from the intense stimulation. “Don’t run, baby,” Shane’s free arm wraps around your waist, holding you close to her, her fingers refusing to give up on that spot inside you. 

Shane groans in annoyance when a sharp knock manages to overpower the music and your moans. “Fuck off!” she shouts over her shoulder, head whipping right back to you. 

“Y’close, babe?” her tone changes like a switch, throaty coo back in her voice, “Your gettin’ tighter…” 

You hate how smug she is. But there’s no shame to admit she’s not wrong. The risk of being caught seemed to set your nerves on override, dialling your body heat to the fullest. “Don’t stop, don’t stop, don’t stop” you chant, “please. gonna cum, fuck fuck.” 

A moan slips from Shane’s mouth into yours, hearing the mix of how wet you sound along with how badly you want release. She’s right there too. Humping herself on your thigh is about to have her making a mess of her cotton panties. Most likely soaked through and through. 

“It’s good, yeah? Cum, babe, cum with me,” she mutters out through pleasured grunts, forehead pushing against yours as euphoria threatens to crash into this random room. Shane can feel your slick pooling in her palm and she lets go, cursing huskily and trembling. 

Your orgasm causes your body to still, wave after wave of pleasure coursing frantically inside of you. Arms hugging Shane close, you ride out your highs together, panting into one another’s mouths. Speaking in a tongue of lust. Moans passing back and forth, heads growing fuzzier as the music thumps through the walls of the bar. 

Shane’s body leans into yours, chin falling to your shoulder as her fingers come to a halt within you. The sudden emptiness is gut wrenching but the constant banging on the bathroom doors offers little time for small talk. “Oh my god,” you breathe out, bursting into laughter with the girl who just made you see stars. 

She’s still grinning when she sticks her drenched fingers into her mouth, sucking off your cum. Your own laugh falters, panties feeling impossibly damp impossibly fast. Shane almost snorts, “Don’t look at me like that,” despite her voice sounds serious. 

Head cocked to look down at you, Shane’s free hand reaches up to brush your hair back into place. “This was fun,” you say, tugging the hem of your dress down to where it should be. 

“Yeah,” Shane nods. She licks her lips as she takes what you guess as her last look at you

“Maybe I’ll see you around.” 

ignore me posting this earlier…

[trulycertain]

On Dragon Age & Accents

(My unhelpful tuppence, as an English player.)

One small thing I wish had come up in Veilguard from previous games: the accent worldbuilding. It wasn't always consistent - DA:O only seemed to care about country or race, anyone non-human being generically North American and anyone human being mostly RP English unless they were Antivan; for regional accents, they seemed to purely use them for effect or go with VAs' natural ones. (There are about two bandit NPCs who seem to have badly-done Midlands English accents purely because they're not meant to be very bright; thanks, love Canadians reinforcing that stereotype. Anders being Lancashire seems to be pure coincidence because of his voice actor - you rarely ever hear the accent in any consistent way in other NPCs, and it's completely ignored in his very Southern DA2 recast.)

But by DA2, there seemed to be definite trends: Free Marches could be RP English or North American depending where you came from; dwarves tended to sound North American but there were exceptions for some people raised on the surface; elves tended to be either Welsh or Irish, which matches the "very old culture with a linguistically completely different root from Trade/English". Starkhaven is most definitely Scots.

And then DAI! DAI, my love.

DAI kept DA2's trends, while finally giving us more complexity and regional accents, albeit limitedly (and still with some inconsistencies). Finally, we have a (vaguely Germanic) Nevarran accent! And Miranda Raison did such careful work constructing it! The Avvar, Ferelden's mountain folk, sound Northern English. I'd hazard a guess that several sound Yorkshire, actually - this matches the whole "the Orlesians got up there less" lore in real terms; Northern England and Scotland, particularly Yorkshire, was under Viking rule longer than the South, which became Norman-conquered earlier, and there are subtle dialectal differences to this day. (Similar thing happened with the Celts and Romans, and the Avvar are blatantly Celtic and Pictish). There's a reason that RP ("neutral posh") English is Southern, from the seats of power. Cullen's from Honnleath, somewhere smaller and less Orlesianified, and while it's softened by the character's travel and the VA's own posher bents, there are moments the Northern English accent gets leaned into, a little similarity with the Avvar. It's a coincidence but it works so well, lore-wise. Sera's VA sounds... Derbyshire? I think? which is Midlands/Northern border and sounds more than Northern enough to keep a consistent Fereldan sound. And in terms of NPCs? A lot of Fereldan NPCs suddenly start turning up Northern, albeit less broad in their accents! Have a listen round the Crossroads. I remember Gaider mentioning Dorian wasn't originally meant to be Indian, they sealed it for sure when they cast Ramon Tikaram, at which point everyone went, "Yup, let's run with it", cast his dad accordingly, and Gaider figured that Dorian was either part of a pretty big migrant population (which, other than the Dorian Gray reference, the fact his name roughly means "from across the sea" also makes sense), or quite a lot of Tevene folk natively were. Considering Tevinter started as essentially "mage Rome" and morphed into, even according to the writers themselves, "mage Byzantium" and it's very close to Seheron, which I feel is North Africa/Middle East influenced - Tevene folk being akin to folk of Turkish, Middle Eastern, Indian, Pakistani, Bangladeshi, Sri Lankan and Bengali backgrounds makes a ton of sense.

It is... exceedingly rare to hear working-class British accents in fantasy series at all (unless Brits make them, and then we're still often peasants or generic NPC #2, a la Origins). It is even rarer to have a fantasy series bother to keep immigrant accents and show the moulding of them through the generations. And I can only think of one other video game that has consciously cast British Asian actors, that's how rare it is even in games that supposedly care about representation - despite the fact that Asian folk make up something like 30% of our population.

Now: would I like some more background on why some accents in the Marches sound British and some don't? Yup! Would I have liked to have more regions in the elves' Irish accents and the dwarves' NA? Yup! But do those really matter? Nope! They would have been lovely icing on the cake, but the underlying cake was great. The plot didn't need it. It didn't have to be perfect, and the filtering of British culture through Canadians, and strategic anachronism? Those are things I love about Dragon Age. I loved how much they seemed to be trying and how much they were thinking about the lore. And I loved hearing a "British accent" that finally made sense to me, not played into the long attempts by toffs to stamp out everything North of London or outside England.

And then Veilguard sort of... forgot about it most of it? Adored that we could play as a Geordie! I really, really love them continuing pointed casting of folk with British Asian ancestry for several Tevinters (*waves lovingly at elek and neve*). But then... uh... look! Working-class Tevene people with generic Mancunian accents! To show they're working-class! That's fantastic progress... for Origins. But lore-wise, by DATV we've already shown that Manchester and Northern English accents live... *points at Ferelden* somewhere over there. We're back to "Tevinters mostly sound like generically evil English folk", as in DAO and bits of 2, which, sure, Dorian doesn't contradict - but then why not have everyone sound Southern, like him? Or add a different tint to it? And no, I am not saying everyone should put on bad "ethnic" accents, and I do appreciate the number of American, English and Mediterranean accents in Tevinter showing a very Roman "you're a citizen of the Imperium but you might have been born in one of its several countries" - but…

Gideon Emery's slight Afrikaans tint made a ton of sense with Fenris and what part of Tevinter he was meant to be from, even if it was unintentional; Jennifer Hale's take on Krem was going for English but came out more Aussie to my ear. Something like those could have been really interesting. But that also means that, including Fenris, we've now had several slaves with an accent that reads... quite posh, to English ears. Same with Neve, who is supposedly proudly from the shithole part of Minrathous, but she and several others have very RP "posh" accents (while others like Tarquin and Elek are Mancunian). Now, not everyone picks up their local accent! I am one of those people! I ended up cursedly plummy for a long time! But... we had hints through the series that Tevinter class markers would be very different from Fereldans', but they're now the same, for some reason?

Add that to the fact that they didn't want to make even one VA suffer through doing the Nevarran accent... See, it makes total sense for Emmrich, who's a posh professor who's done a lot of international study and would probably have learned Common as a second language with a very generic, "neutral" accent; he also was very concerned about appearances with his class background and trained himself not to give much away. And I'm sure the Mourn Watch has international students. But no Nevarran NPCs sound pointedly Nevarran? Not a one? Kal Sharok has hints of something interesting going on but it's rare, and the Anderfels is just... full of sad English and American-sounding people. Rivain is supposedly Caribbean and there are a bunch of actors of Caribbean descent they could've cast, but we only have one NPC sound even slightly so? That's when it stops being "Trade is taught with a neutral accent and there are a lot of Fereldan immigrants and slaves in Tevinter" and starts feeling handwavey.

Basically: I wouldn't mind if we'd gone with most fantasy games' "Eh, we cast broadly based on sound, stereotype or none of the above"; I'm very happy to just go with it. However, DAI told me to pay vague attention because the accents meant something. Then DATV has heel-turned and is telling me "Nah, go with it" the way Origins did. My ears are... confused, to say the least. And we're back to "'working-class' has one accent, and characters with something to say who aren't cast as stereotypically plucky underdogs are all Southern and posh", which just... makes me really sad. I don't hear people who sound like me, my family, or my friends growing up, in Dragon Age anymore. I did hear they had a different voice director in DATV, so maybe it's that?

[novlr]

Any tips on how to describe indoor spaces so they feel real and match the vibe of the story without throwing in too much detail?

Getting interior scenes just right is all about finding the balance between setting the mood, showing the unique personality of your story world, and keeping the plot moving. There are lots of ways you can use senses, action, and background to set a scene, all of which can work seamlessly with the type of story you want to tell. Here are some tips on how you can achieve that:

How does it look?

Lighting: does your space contain the soft glow of lamps, harsh fluorescent lights, or natural light?

Use colour and textures like peeling paint, plush velvet, or sleek marble.

Size and scale: is it claustrophobically small or impressively grand?

Architectural features: does the space have high ceilings, crown mouldings, or exposed beams?

Furnishings: are they modern, sparse, antique, or cluttered?

Style and decor: what style is represented, and how does it affect the atmosphere?

State of repair: is the space well-kept, neglected, or under renovation?

Perspective and layout: how do spaces flow into each other?

Unique design features: describe sculptural elements, or things that stand out.

Spatial relationships: describe how objects are arranged—what’s next to, across from, or underneath something else?

How does it sound?

Describe echoes in large spaces or the muffled quality of sound in carpeted or furnished rooms.

Note background noises; is there a persistent hum of an air conditioner, or the tick of a clock?

Describe the sound of footsteps; do they click, scuff, or are they inaudible?

Include voices; are they loud and echoing or soft and absorbed?

Is there music? Is it piped in, coming from a live source, or perhaps drifting in from outside?

Capture the sounds of activity; typing, machinery, kitchen noises, etc.

Describe natural sounds; birds outside the window, or the rustle of trees.

Consider sound dynamics; is the space acoustically lively or deadened?

Include unexpected noises that might be unique to the building.

Consider silence as a sound quality. What does the absence of noise convey?

How does it smell?

Identify cleaning products or air fresheners. Do they create a sterile or inviting smell?

Describe cooking smells if near a kitchen; can you identify specific foods?

Mention natural scents; does the room smell of wood, plants, or stone?

Are there musty or stale smells in less ventilated spaces?

Note the smell of new materials; fresh paint, new carpet, or upholstery.

Point out if there’s an absence of smell, which can be as notable as a powerful scent.

Consider personal scents; perfume, sweat, or the hint of someone’s presence.

Include scents from outside that find their way in; ocean air, city smells, etc.

Use metaphors and similes to relate unfamiliar smells to common experiences.

Describe intensity and layering of scents; is there a primary scent supported by subtler ones?

What can you do there?

Describe people’s actions; are they relaxing, working, hurried, or leisurely?

Does the space have a traditional use? What do people come there to do?

Note mechanical activity; elevators moving, printers printing, etc.

Include interactions; are people talking, arguing, or collaborating?

Mention solitary activities; someone reading, writing, or involved in a hobby.

Capture movements; are there servers bustling about, or a janitor sweeping?

Observe routines and rituals; opening blinds in the morning, locking doors at night.

Include energetic activities; perhaps children playing or a bustling trade floor.

Note restful moments; spaces where people come to unwind or reflect.

Describe cultural or community activities that might be unique to the space.

How is it decorated?

Describe the overall style; is it minimalist, baroque, industrial, or something else?

Note period influences; does the decor reflect a specific era or design movement?

Include colour schemes and how they play with or against each other.

Mention patterns; on wallpaper, upholstery, or tiles.

Describe textural contrasts; rough against smooth, shiny against matte.

Observe symmetry or asymmetry in design.

Note the presence of signature pieces; a chandelier, an antique desk, or a modern art installation.

Mention thematic elements; nautical, floral, astronomical, etc.

Describe homemade or bespoke items that add character.

Include repetitive elements; motifs that appear throughout the space.

What is its history?

Mention historical usage; was the building repurposed, and does it keep its original function?

Describe architectural time periods; identify features that pinpoint the era of construction.

Note changes over time; upgrades, downgrades, or restorations.

Include historical events that took place within or affected the building.

Mention local or regional history that influenced the building’s design or function.

Describe preservation efforts; are there plaques, restored areas, or visible signs of aging?

Describing indoor spaces doesn’t have to feel like a chore. Focus on the details that matter most, tie them to the mood or characters, and let your readers fill in the blanks. A well-crafted space not only sets the scene but builds your character's relationship to it. Use sensory language, background, and action beats to tie it into your narrative, and don’t be afraid to play around with motifs and contradictions, depending on who is experiencing it!

[consciouscarrot]

simon ghost riley, who loves you with teeth. literally.

he’ll sink his teeth into you at any given moment, it could be whilst you’re doing something completely mundane like folding laundry, and he’ll come up behind you, tilting your head to the side gently before he grazes your skin with his sharp teeth, teasing you as he chooses the perfect spot for his mark before he bites, pressing down hard. enough for you to wince and shift in his hold. but before you can let any murmurs of complaint, he always softens you up, licking away any traces of blood, pressing light kisses around the now sore area and whispering saccharine praises of you being his perfect girl.

however, the majority of the time, he’s not biting you solely for the enjoyment, but to find solace in marking up any untainted skin he can find. simon needs to see his marks on you as a physical reminder that you’re his, wholly and by choice. that you’re here, that you’re real. he needs to see the once smooth skin slowly bruise and for the indents of his teeth to appear beneath the sheen of his saliva, the clear liquid staining red from where he broke the skin. he needs to physically see your form changing because of him, something to remind him that you are here with him, that he’s not still with roba and his mind hasn’t just created you as a cruel way to cope. he bites until he’s forced to believe in the proof of your existence: in the feeling of your skin beneath his mouth tearing and moulding to his bite, in the quiet whimpers you let out, the metallic tang of your blood on his tongue, the smell of your perfume as he nuzzles further into your neck.

he often stays like that with you for a while, swaying slightly with his jaw still clamped down on you as he holds you close to him, strong arms wrapped tightly around you, squeezing just enough to limit your ability to move. you might lift your hand up to his hair, fingers threading through the blond strands, letting your nails drag over his scalp until he lets out a delicious groan into your spit-slick neck that sounds awfully like a purr.

the intimacy of these moments is priceless, and even though you can feel his drool trickling down your collarbone and your neck is stinging, you’d never trade this for anything. you see it for what it truly is, a display of deep trust. in those moments where he’s overcome with the lasting effects of trauma, those times where with anyone else he would pull away completely, eyes cold and tone sharp, craving comfort and affection but unable to accept even a morsel of it. instead, he chooses to push past those automatic responses, he chooses to let you see his vulnerability as he slowly unlearns the hatred and insecurity his father forced onto him. he lets you ease the lingering anger and grief from his past that he’s so desperate to bury.

when he’s finally ready to pull away, head far clearer than before, he’ll gently spin you around in his arms, eyes tracing over your fresh wound, thumbing the edges of the tender flesh, reddened and swollen with his mark. simon takes these moments to watch you, taking in every micro expression to make sure you’re okay and not angry with him; those dark eyes filled with guilt and sweet adoration boring into yours as he presses your foreheads together, lashes fluttering subtly in contentment.

he breathes out a sigh of relief at your slow smile, your hands rising to cradle his jaw, in a way so gentle and loving that only you could achieve.

a nagging part of his brain is always screaming at him to turn these soft, unguarded moments into a more comfortable version, with something he’s much more familiar with- lust. it’s telling him to give up, to turn you back around and bend you over, to punish you for loving him, for trusting him and for letting him trust you. he ignores it, a trick that took many years of patience and forgiveness from you to learn, until that traumatised part of him slowly retreats back, slowly allows him this seemingly fleeting moment of respite.

you’re so understanding that if he wasn’t so broken, he’s adamant that he’d be crying. his sweet lovie. you stay silent, waiting for him to either tell you what he needs, or for him to simply take it. whether that’s lying in bed for the rest of the day, curled up in each others warmth, or space and a little time to himself, you’ll give it to him in a heartbeat. he’d think of himself as one of those self centred, greedy boyfriends that does nothing but expect their girls to be their mums if it weren’t for the way that he knows he does the same for you too. he knows that when you’ve had a bad day, or even when you’ve had a good day, he drops everything immediately to be what you need.

it’s taken him a long time, and he’s still unlearning the bad and relearning the good, but everything feels just that bit easier with you. knowing that you’re his and he’s yours, plus being able to see the clear evidence of that on your skin, it makes him feel like maybe he can be better for you, after all.

hello! just a little smth, might be shit bc i’m rusty and still very new at the whole writing thing so please be kind. will probs disappear again after this. i hope you all had or are having a lovely day <3

m.list

[penny-anna]

last year when i moved i decided it would be nice to trade up the tesco value dishes i've been using since i was a student for a nicer dinner service and well today i realised that my new plates have been growing MOULD???

[slowd1ving]

hello!! Your fic is so cool and if your request is open, can I request DG x male reader when DG still in his James lee era while reader is the King of Busan

XENIA ゜゜・DG

Xenia, noun: the classical concept of hospitality to strangers. This, unfortunately, includes a wandering dog and his conniving owner—a most irritating, tooth-grinding conundrum the King of Busan has with Charles Choi and his boy-genius. sorry for the wait anon I was away from my laptop for the past week or so! and I couldn't write :'( first meetings and onwards for this particular work haha chicken and egg problem.. haha introspection on business and corruption... haha capitalism pairing: dg (james lee) + male reader warnings: male reader, canon typical violence, arguing (bickering) wc: 3.3k

LOOKISM MASTERLIST

MASTERLIST ・゜・NAVIGATION

In the lengthy chronicles of Charles Choi’s grand plan—to mould the precarious South Korean underground into something far more profitable—James Lee finally came across his very own cause-and-effect conundrum. 

What came first, the chicken or the egg? Plutarch initially posed this question in The Symposiacs: a symbolic tug of war between creator and creation. James supposed, in his bored sort of way, that this question described the relationship between cities and Kings as well. Chronically, objectively, the cities existed first—tall structures and unique ecosystems that forged shadowy figureheads to rule the violent underbelly. But poetically, it was rather hard to ignore the hands etching—pummeling—a pathway for the power to flourish. Without those in charge, what were the cities? And without the cities, who were the people in charge?

Parsing the matter, it distilled into who influenced whom.

Of course, the dazzling sprawl of Busan refracting from the glass under his feet was no exception. Even he, who satiated his youthful wanderlust with blood on his fists, couldn’t deny his reluctance to sully this city more. But, what did it matter? The second most important city in South Korea (some would froth at the mouth and argue it was the first for its gateway to Eurasian trade, or at least for its world-class ports) was built from perfectly respectable trade; but alack! it was also protected by its snarling underworld. It had already been befouled: polluted by fists no better than his, trodden by legs more filthy than his own. Blood and toil smeared its golden sand, and its money was just as dirty.

 Sure, the city was propped up by honourable (hah) commercial deals, but it was shielded by the illicit ones. 

A defiled aegis, if you would.  

It was clear the current glitzy glamour of Busan night-life was carefully orchestrated by someone: from the specific mouthfeel the night air had, to the businesses that ran late into the witching hours. Those mythical beings and chaebols who fed and extracted money from this place, in endless loops, were culpable for these towering skyscrapers and glittering lights. 

Creators. 

In turn, the city cradled your grimy little body—chubby hands wrapping around index fingers of the metaphorical hounds—and made you. 

Did this metropolis represent you, or did you represent the metropolis?

It was not in a polite setting that James Lee scouted the venerable King of Busan: arguably the second most esteemed figurehead for the Kings of South Korea. In theory. In theory, since Busan’s reputation as a hub for trade and exalted trade (rather than the mere cold, hard cash ill-reputed other cities offered Choi) entwined with your own. Except, in practice, you were a far more reticent King than anyone could imagine. A shadow to fade into obliquity more than any other shadow. 

Underbelly, yes. This was the turf you were most at home in; he could forget all about the glamorous, illegal casinos in basements, he could forget about eavesdropping on business moguls and their lackeys, he could forget about waiting in the entertainment districts for the proverbial snake to finally rear his head. 

You were the fucking microcosm of this city: draped with expensive fabric and chainmailed with gold, but the blood on your knuckles stank of impurity. In a parking lot nestled on the outskirts of Busan, he witnessed the King in his court: complete with the luxury, the opulence, and the hamartia of brutality that came with capitalism. Yes, Busan had minted you as a shadowy side to a glitzy coin—as your eyes snapped to where he lounged against concrete, he couldn’t help but observe how your imaginary hackles raised. 

Thwomp. Casually, you tossed the grunt beaten black-and-blue to the frigid asphalt, with the magnanimity of tossing breadcrumbs to ducks in a pond. Like the lackey was the bread and James fucking Lee himself was the duck. A bloodied cheek squished into his sneaker, but you merely stared at him owl-like. No, cat-like, because it seemed to be the same nonplussed stare a cat would give someone after bringing them a dead rat. 

“Nice city.” Since you clearly had no intention of speaking first. Deftly, his fingers unravelled the mystic plastic of a lollipop: popping the cherry-flavoured candy into his mouth to soothe the acerbic irritation he tasted. “You treat all your guests like this, or do kings not follow xenia anymore?” 

It was a rather futile attempt to lighten the mood. After all, if he could help it, he’d rather negotiate to pave the way for the second generation before resorting to throwing his fist. No, that was a lie. His flexing fingers wanted nothing more than to curl into a fist to let off some of the steam he’d garnered from searching for you in this uselessly big city, but fate had him making stupid jokes based on The Odyssey he’d read just last week for his Classics competition. If he rummaged in his pocket, he could probably find the gold medal clanking against hard sweets. 

Your expression changed minutely—a slight disturbance in your brows. They furrowed, and for a brief moment James Lee thought his joke fell flat. With all the blood soaked into your expensive garb, maybe you just valued fists over Homeric hexameter. Violence over prose. Brawns over brains. You slinked like shadows. Crude. Ominous. He could barely see your face even with the city lights flashing neon in the backdrop, but when your loping gait came to a halt, there was an exasperation that afforded more subtle nuance to your character. A bitterness to tinge what he thought was mindlessness. 

“Mr. Lee.” Your voice curled low in your throat, as quick and elusive as mercury, and perhaps just as poisonous. Shadow King of Busan, the man who never introduced himself to you noticed. Silence was golden, and he suddenly understood why Charles Choi so badly wanted sway over the young King in charge of this port city. “I hope you’re aware that beating my subordinates would invalidate any sort of hospitality between us. You’re no god amongst men either, so ritualistic hospitality is a very weak premise to coerce my amiability with. Try again.”

Deity in the flesh. Perhaps James Lee was the closest thing to breaking the limits of humanity, but all men were fallible. That wasn’t what caused his brow to rise though; going in blind may have been risky, but it was worth it to find someone with a silver tongue like this. 

You looked about his age—treading on the precarious cusp between First and Second Generation, fists stained as red as his hair—but you spoke as if you were triple your years. 

“You wanna transfer to my school? It’d be fun to have you in the Debate Club,” he said on a whim, but it wasn’t really a whim either. His instructions were expressly to negotiate with Busan—the city was far too volatile to create a power vacuum in. For cities like Ansan, struggle was welcomed; but Charles Choi had too little of everything to contend with Busan, of all places. Just like in Seoul, the situation would resolve itself, and it was far too soon for the HNH Group to meddle in a place like this. “You talk like a teacher.”

His tone was as syrupy as his candy, but there was half-provocation, half-probing-curiosity entrenched in his cadence. Go on, it coaxed, throw a punch. Argue back. Unorthodox was his means of securing cooperation, but he’d have to be a little unorthodox to secure the deal old man Choi had painstakingly written out. A contract between Elite and the capricious man before him, between HNH Group and the microcosm of Busan himself; it sounded like every capitalist’s wet dream. 

“Good question, kid,” you smiled, but it was less of a smile and more of a sneer as you ghosted closer to him. Kid, like you weren’t one yourself. 

Crack. You stepped, heavy, on the hand of the man you’d pummelled—only his unconscious groan of pain re-alerted James to his existence. “The term isn’t over. You should still be in school. Playing around like this makes me far less likely to listen to whatever you’ve followed me for. Try again.”

The thick scent of metal invaded his personal space as you peeled your black gloves off; the rings beneath them were tinted with the blood that had seeped through the material. Just like that, you callously tossed the garment onto the slumbering man under your feet—though he truly wasn’t sure whether it was a final affront to a beaten man or throwing down the gauntlet towards James Lee himself. 

It was a reminder, once again, to not be hasty. There was the real possibility of fucking Charles Choi several times over if he didn’t get this right, but the thought of his imminent doom didn’t seem all too unappealing. On the contrary, he found his heart beating faster—pulse hot on his tongue as an intriguing challenge presented itself before him. 

“I’m sure your informants have relayed more intel than just my name,” he mirrored the jagged stretch of your lips. The Legend of the First Generation. The Genius. The original, associated with the base moniker of the Ten Geniuses to show just how unparalleled James fucking Lee was. “Take a guess as to how my scholastic life is going, then consider the opportunity that I’m bringing you.”

Ambiguous. His words were dusted with just enough information to seem straight to the point, but vague enough that it was tantalising. A hook to ensnare the snake of Busan himself. And rather than sating the itch in his fists, he found himself looking forward to a parley instead. 

You studied him, appearing to consider his words seriously. Syllables phrased like he was the one with the upper hand, when in fact the HNH group was still tentatively unfurling and in the process of negotiations with both yakuza and Triad alike. He awaited your favourable response, hearing the stats roll into your mind as you calculated the preliminary gains and losses to joining hands with Charles Choi. 

Bloodied fingers tapped a rhythm into your jacket absentmindedly. He watched, anticipating your invitation. 

“Fuck off.”

“Huh?” he spluttered. Maybe he misheard you. Maybe he finally choked on his candy and induced a coma in which he was now dreaming of your response. 

“Your boss sent a high-schooler to broker a deal with Busan.” Your fingers now drummed in irritation against your forearm, but he was just as irritated. He took care of every other prefecture and province, only to have this guy who was his age, nonetheless, tell him his presence wasn’t good enough. Like, what? “Tell old Choi to come himself to negotiate if he wants any sort of foothold in my city. If he truly wanted a respectable contract, why would he send you as a messenger?”

“Excuse me?” If he wasn’t restricted from fighting you—the only exception was valid self-defence—he would’ve made the asshole in front of him eat shit. Alas, Choi wasn’t that generous or lenient. “He sent one of the Ten Geniuses, the primero, for this. I’m one of his greatest assets.”

“Are you a damn car or a person?” you snapped, and it suddenly felt as though he was looking upon an ancient wizard as he lectured a troublemaker outside his tower. His eyelid twitched, and he was finding it quite hard to keep a cool head. “Talking about assets… can’t believe Choi’s sent the guy who’s fucked up all the smaller provinces to deal with us.”

The latter sentence was more grumbled to yourself; it appeared he annoyed you just as much as you annoyed him, which he found a delighted satisfaction in. 

“Tell Elite to come himself,” you uttered finally, not even letting him get in a word edgeways as you ambled back into the shadows—not even sparing a glance for the pile of bodies left in your wake. 

And despite his objective, despite the imminent yelling he’d no doubt face, he couldn’t help but stare at your blood-soaked coat fluttering in the frigid coastal wind. 

Out of hatred, obviously. 

・゜゜・

Charles Choi was a conniving bastard. You already knew it, but seeing him in the reception hall really drove the image home. He was polite, a little too polite; yet as soon as you slid that manila folder across the mahogany table, his demeanour prickled into something knife-like. 

Snake of Busan, you were nicknamed, but this guy was something else entirely. Once he sank his teeth into your determination to keep Busan flourishing, you could practically see his pupils contract into thin slits. Of course you’d dealt with tricky deals. Weaving through negotiation as though it were a riptide was how you clawed your way to the very depth of Busan’s underworld—navigating until you finally found that crown mired in cess. 

Or, more accurately, it was Miss Crystal Choi who’d pierced her venom right where it hurt. A Genius of Business, her father had called her—and boy, did it take all your wit to match her expertise in trade. 

But did he really have to bring that guy along?

The scion of the Geniuses was also in your office, leaning against the wall far behind Elite and his daughter. And though nobody asked for his input—not even old Choi spared his prodigy a glance—it still irritated you to no end that he’d tagged along. A bright, cheerful grin cast the sun against the city nightlife on the top floor of your building—one directed right at you, considering the only other two people he knew had their backs facing him. Quite the foolish move, but you weren’t one to concern yourself with people who were basically daylight robbing you. If the dog they’d raised bit them, all the better.

Or maybe he was beaming right at your bodyguard-turned-assistant, who stood discreetly in the shadows of the blinds: slatted light gently cresting over his tall build. Well. It certainly was one of the less strange things Mr Lee had done.  

Still, for someone who’d been glaring at you just a week ago, the change felt far too eerie to ignore. 

“—and onto the temporary personnel exchange section—” A feeble attempt to pry open the walnut that Busan was, which would only end with the unfortunate bastard failing. You’d choose a loyal subordinate, they’d select someone who was doomed to only grunt work—far from the impenetrable fortress of this building. Boredly, you tapped the pen on the contract, before freezing up at Miss Choi’s next words. “—we’d like to recommend James Lee to transfer to this office.” 

A pen snapped, and ink spilled onto the page. Dumbfounded, you barely registered her sliding over a fresh sheet, as though she knew full well this would happen. 

No, it was no recommendation. Her very mention of his name was a forceful shove of him into your office. No wonder he was grinning like the devil. No wonder he was here in the first place. At that moment, you wanted nothing more than to leave Busan behind. 

Your eye twitched. 

He kept smiling—an ominous prelude to the brimstone and fire you were sure to experience promptly.  

・゜゜・

“Aren’t I a better bodyguard than that useless one you keep around?” 

James Lee had been a bit too quiet these past few days; duly loping around behind the lower-ranked subordinates as they made their rounds, never crossing the proverbial line when you’d handed him his duties as interim grunt. Though, whenever you passed him, his eyes followed the shadows of your fluttering hem—two pinpricks of an arid glare sweeping on your back. 

But James Lee was a dog, and whatever command Elite gave him, he’d obey. Heel. Roll over. Serve under the King of Busan for a month. A jester, if you would, with a leash around his neck that kept drawing more and more blood from him. What were the limits? Just how far would he go for the man with a crimson shadow?

“No,” you said. He stood, far too proud, on a summit of lackeys that had been sent your way by one of the companies who’d attempted to cheat their way to getting a more favourable deal. It would’ve been a simple ambush—one doomed to fail—fated to end with you tossing blood-soaked gloves right on them before you postponed the meeting you were on your way to. 

But not today. It appeared the limit of the dog of Elite was passing up petty competition with the man two paces behind you.

“Unlike you, Song’s actually pleasant to listen to.” Yes, Song wasn’t the most useful of bodyguards point-blank, but it wasn’t like you particularly needed someone to take care of protecting you. He made people lower their guards. And he made a mean cup of tea. “I don’t have any use for you, so you’re still worse.”

“Semantics,” he shrugged. “I made your life much easier, did I not?”

He was smart. Too smart, but you already knew that from the intel that had not yet been erased. Hushed up, because of course Elite would painstakingly conceal his cards. 

And unfortunately, you were always drawn to a risky hand. A pleasure far removed from the mundane violence of your everyday life—a heart-pounding thrill of betting all your chips in a hazardous (though not desperate) gamble. 

“Maybe.” For it was one day removed from the multitudes of late meetings and burdensome glove changes. Your hands weren’t seeped in oily red, sliding and dripping onto your expensive clothes that were tailored—though still felt so fucking ill-fitting that it made you sick—right to your body. 

You considered the man toeing carefully past the dogpile located against a cargo container: donning what could’ve been your life. A beige school uniform, pinkie slightly indented from books and study, pen marks still dotting his fingers. Closer. He ambled lazily to your direction, and as he approached with the dying sun behind him, you could see his smile. Just as languid as the day you first met him, and just as irritating. 

Closer. Strawberry candy laced the iron odour, though you could faintly taste lemon in the profile too—testament to the yellow wrapper stuck crudely on one of the men. Closer—he was far too close now, standing chest to chest while he stared directly at you. 

If there was one thing that came from this ill-fated encounter, it was probably the permanent furrowed brows that decorated your perplexed face—the bloodhound had been reduced to this fluffy thing demanding your attention. 

And it was just as unfortunate that your impression had been chipped away for him too—a King whose expressions were utterly delightful to witness. A straight mouth, grinning ever-so-slightly when a deal went your way. A routine rhythm to your biro tapping your notepad. Eyes that shone with practical constellations as you breathed the briny air of the port in. 

A particularity to the way you treated others, steely to the strong, awkward with the weak. So utterly flustered, when it came to tiny kids tugging on your long coat, or the grandmas you lent your arm to on the streets. If he had to compare it, he’d attribute your personality as a non-Newtonian fluid: your very own mix of cornstarch and water. Tough with pressure, all soft without. 

Like now. 

“Come on,” he whined. Psychologically, he was doing a damn good impression of pitifulness—even if you’d just witnessed him commit a beatdown so one-sided that you could feel the second-hand pain. And little by little, he was watching you falter: breath caught in his throat as he watched your brows default to their furrow once more. “I saved you a good few minutes, didn’t I? Don’t tell me Busan can’t even acknowledge hard work and effort.”

“Fine, whatever,” you crumbled just like that, under the heavy weight of his triumphant eyes. “Good job.”

So cute, he thought, then froze almost immediately the moment the words came to mind.

Fuck. 

・゜゜・

[espionn]

LeafWing tribe sheet!

its over, i finally did them all. sorry this one took a while, ive been losing motivation, but at least its done!! honestly i love leafwings, so im glad i could get them out.

Physical Appearence + Traits:

-LeafWings are arboreal dragons, living in and relying on trees to hunt, shelter and sleep. Their talons are perfectly shaped to comfortably climb and hold onto branches, and their narrow wings allow them to swoop and weave through the trees without crashing.

-LeafWings’ colors, physical traits, and even demeanor shift and change with the seasons. During the summer, their frills and wings are rich green, and scales bright and glossy. They have higher energy and sleep less. During the fall, their colors shift to a warmer spectrum, their leafy frills start to flake off, and they start to prepare for winter. Once winter arrives, they lose their frills, tail-leaf and wing membranes, as well as turning duller and darker. They spend the majority of winter asleep, relying on the trees’ bare branches for camouflage, now rendered flightless. Finally, during spring, they wake up, their colors brighten, and their wing membranes return. The buds that grow along their backs open up and form their spine frills before summer begins.

-LeafWings are lithe and agile, and are very quiet fliers, especially when compared to HiveWings and SilkWings.

-During the summer, with their wings at their fullest, they can actually photosynthesize. They still need to eat food, but anytime they sleep during the day with their wings open to the sun, they wake up energized and not needing to eat for a while after. 

-The coloration and shape of LeafWings’ wings varies both by region and individual. Some LeafWings mimic specific types of trees.

-Some LeafWings also have Leafspeak, an ability which allows them to communicate with plants and even control them if powerful enough. 

Life Cycle:

-LeafWings hatch in clutches of one or two. They take around 5 months to hatch, and they are deeply reliant on their parents and their wider community. LeafWings are strongly protective of their dragonets. They also grow up somewhat quickly, reaching physical maturity quickly, but they continue to grow in size their entire lives.

-They partner for life, but often only raise one clutch of eggs (sometimes only a single egg) in their lifetime. The tribe is somewhat small as a result.

-LeafWings don’t have an official education system, instead relying on parents, peers and older, more experienced dragons to teach them what they need to know. LeafWings can then go on to pursue whatever tribe role stands out to them, using a sort of mentoring system.

Society and Culture:

-Before LeafWings were split into two groups, the tribe was quite peaceful and unified. The queen, by tradition, always had a council, and they lived nearby and alongside SilkWings. The tribe was known for being friendly and knowledgeable, and deeply dedicated to caring for the forest. 

-LeafWings are also very resourceful. From various leaves, grasses, bits of wood, flowers, and insects, they could create baskets and rugs, thin slats of wood to write on, dyes, storage objects, and various weapons and food preparing tools. Learning to make and control fire meant they could progress faster. They were also talented woodcarvers, weavers and artists, sometimes trading not only supplies, but also various art pieces to and from the SilkWings. 

-They were expert foragers, and had records of every type of tree, plant and animal in their forest. Many had  small gardens of their own - medicinal herbs, spices, and plants they simply found pretty. 

-Those with leafspeak were beloved and respected in the tribe, not dissimilar to animus dragons. Sometimes they would mould the shape of trees’ growth to create proper homes and nests for dragons to spend the nights, especially in winter.

-They have tribe-wide celebrations to mark spring, when they all wake from torpor, and the summer solstice, when they are at their highest energy and fullest lives. 

-The SapWings, after the tribe was forcibly split, remained very similar culturally, though they lost their ability to trade and had to concentrate on survival in the poison jungle. The PoisonWings, meanwhile, changed dramatically. They became distinctly aggressive and warlike, taking their understanding of plants and animals and weaponizing them. They used the many venoms, poisons and sharp, dangerous objects throughout the jungle to their full advantage. A number of dragons died in the process, but those who survived became stronger.

-LeafWings believe that plants hold some level of consciousness, and some believe that they are animated by fully conscious spirits, each with its own unique consciousness and opinions. Trees are unanimously believed to be extremely wise and benevolent, and as deserving utmost care and respect. They are treated as if they were tribe elders themselves. It was once agreed upon by all leafspeakers that if a tree resisted a request, they were not allowed to make any attempt to force it to do what they wanted. Leafspeakers would also be used to make requests before cutting off any part of the tree to use - if it refused, it would be left alone. (It isn’t hard to imagine the way they felt when the entire forest was cut and burned down by the HiveWings.)

Diet: Omnivorous. LeafWings eat meat (birds, rodents, sometimes large mammals and reptiles), sometimes raw, sometimes cooked, and also a wide variety of plants, fruits and nuts. Because of the versatility of their diet, they have a great number of meals they like to prepare, usually garnished with herbs, spices and sweeteners like honey and certain types of tree sap.

[whencyclopedia]

Uruk

Uruk was one of the most important cities (at one time, the most important) in ancient Mesopotamia. According to the Sumerian King List, it was founded by King Enmerkar c. 4500 BCE. Uruk is best known as the birthplace of writing c. 3200 BCE as well as for its architecture and other cultural innovations.

Located in the southern region of Sumer (modern day Warka, Iraq), Uruk was known in the Aramaic language as Erech which, it is believed, gave rise to the modern name for the country of Iraq, though another likely derivation is Al-Iraq, the Arabic name for the region of Babylonia. The city of Uruk is most famous for its great king Gilgamesh and the epic tale of his quest for immortality but also for a number of firsts in the development of civilization which occurred there.

It is considered the first true city in the world, the origin of writing, the first example of architectural work in stone and the building of great stone structures, the origin of the ziggurat, and the first city to develop the cylinder seal which the ancient Mesopotamians used to designate personal property or as a signature on documents. Considering the importance the cylinder seal had for the people of the time, and that it stood for one's personal identity and reputation, Uruk could also be credited as the city which first recognized the importance of the individual in the collective community.

The city was continuously inhabited from its founding until c. 300 CE when, owing to both natural and man-made influences, people began to desert the area. By this time, it had depleted natural resources in the surrounding area and was no longer a major political or commercial power. It lay abandoned and buried until excavated in 1853 by William Loftus for the British Museum.

The Uruk Period

The Ubaid Period (c. 5000-4100 BCE) when the so-called Ubaid people first inhabited the region of Sumer is followed by the Uruk Period (4100-2900 BCE) during which time cities began to develop across Mesopotamia and Uruk became the most influential. The Uruk Period is divided into 8 phases from the oldest, through its prominence, and into its decline based upon the levels of the ruins excavated and the history which the artifacts found there reveal. The city was most influential between 4100-c.3000 BCE when Uruk was the largest urban center and the hub of trade and administration.

In precisely what manner Uruk ruled the region, why and how it became the first city in the world, and in what manner it exercised its authority is not fully known. Scholar Gwendolyn Leick writes:

The Uruk phenomenon is still much debated, as to what extent Uruk exercised political control over the large area covered by the Uruk artifacts, whether this relied on the use of force, and which institutions were in charge. Too little of the site has been excavated to provide any firm answers to these questions. However, it is clear that, at this time, the urbanization process was set in motion, concentrated at Uruk itself. (183-184)

Since the city of Ur had a more advantageous placement for trade, further south toward the Persian Gulf, it would seem to make sense that city, rather than Uruk, would have wielded more influence but this is not the case.

Artifacts from Uruk appear at virtually every excavated site throughout Mesopotamia and even in Egypt. The historian Julian Reade notes:

Perhaps the most striking example of the wide spread of some features of the Uruk culture consists in the distribution of what must be one of the crudest forms ever made, the so-called beveled-rim bowl. This kind of bowl, mould-made and mass-produced, is found in large numbers throughout Mesopotamia and beyond. (30)

This bowl was the means by which workers seem to have been paid: by a certain amount of grain ladled into a standard-sized bowl. The remains of these bowls, throughout all of Mesopotamia, suggest that they “were frequently discarded immediately after use, like the aluminum foil containing a modern take-away meal” (Reade, 30). So popular was the beveled-rim bowl that manufacturing centres sprang up throughout Mesopotamia extending as far away from Uruk as the city of Mari in the far north. Because of this, it is unclear if the bowl originated at Uruk or elsewhere (though Uruk is generally held as the bowl's origin). If at Uruk, then the beveled-rim bowl must be counted among the many of the city's accomplishments as it is the first known example of a mass-produced product.

Continue reading...

[nikjima]

Bit of a question, if you're open to it. You discovered the Wedding Chapel. What do you guess it was supposed to be used for?

The Chaphael, my font of madness. 😔

Thanks for the ask! It's hard to guess, really, but going over what I know about it:

It has the CTY prefix, not the BGO or GLO prefixes, which is what the rest of the HoH has, so I don't believe it was part of the House of Hope.

Only a small part of it is actually walkable, and parts of the wall are not 'solid', and can be walked through, so from my experience of other scene behaviours It was most likely intended for a cutscene.

The background sound when in the area is also one of the default dungeon environment sounds, not Raphael's theme or any music from the HoH.

It is very incomplete, there are gaps between the wall pieces, the floor is uneven, there are almost no 'triggers' in place, such as those for cameras or lighting, and it's very sparsely decorated, so whatever it was for seems to have been abandoned early, though there is evidence in the game files that suggest it was looked at as late on in development as patch 5.

My delulu theory is, of course, that it was made specifically for the player character to marry Raphael in, after giving him the crown and him making them his consort. I want it to be that so very badly it hurts.

What I think it's more likely to be is either:

a - a spot in the city we could visit to trade with Raphael for rare items using soul coins, as we've been told in the past that Raphael was at one point going to be a trader who we could barter with using soul coins. (as an aside, there's some info in the game files that indicates Raphael would have been able to assist us as a summoned ally, there's a spell named "Diabolical Ally" with the text "Summon the crafty devil Raphael to fight alongside you." The spell summon data contains the UUID for a character that doesn't exist, sadly, so I have no way of knowing what form he would have taken. It isn't set up the way the endgame allies for the final battles are, so maybe it'd have been attached to something you could barter from him? 'Use this ring to call upon my aid once per day' kinda deal. Fun idea) This one is unlikely if it really is a cutscene area, of course, though it could have been a case of 'enter building, cutscene begins, complete trade in cutscene, exit'.

b - a scene where we'd see some kind of cult of Raphael scenario going on, post-epilogue. (Archdevils have cults after all, so surely the Archdevil Supreme would have a real fancy one). Perhaps he chose to desecrate a wedding chapel for his cult base because doing such a thing amused him, all the pomp and ceremony of weddings would obviously appeal to him, and corrupting the location a religious ceremony would be held would be extra delicious. Maybe Hope really liked weddings so it was an extra little 'fuck you' to the cleric who denied him, too. There's an unfinished 'Raphael Punished' area, presumably where we'd witness Mephistopheles eating him, so why not have a counter version for those of us who side with him where we see the fruits of his labour?

c - Raphael actually does take the player character as his consort, binding them to him for eternity as a sort of trophy (I rule the hells and have the Hero of Faerun who slew the Absolute in my retinue, in your face dad, your dragon ain't shit), and being the ostentatious so-and-so he is, decided to have a full ceremony to announce it. It probably lasted 9 days and involved 666 different poems about how great he is. He wrote the vows, and once the player character recites all those infernal words it means they're his possession entirely.

Okay, that last one was veering wildly back into the delulu realm. Let me dream. 🥺

Thank you again for the ask, people rarely ask my thoughts on things, it was fun to go back over the Chapel again. I only spent like 4 hours poring over it this time, not 2 days. Improvement! 🙌

To have and to mould into whatever my heart desires. In your sickness and my health. Not even death shall part us, Little Mouse.

[gnocchisworld]

Beautiful Stranger

Joost Klein x singer!reader

Summary: reader is playing at a festival and her set is right after Joost's, they meet in the backstage tent after his stage and hang out after reader does hers! Rumors circulate after fans spotted the pair and they reconnect after missed opportunities when they were together :PP

Word Count: 2.6k

Warnings: no use of y/n, YEARNING! no physical description of reader but uses of she/her and feminine descriptors!

A/N: omgomg this is my first fic ever on here so anyways I am a firm believer of the meeting people twice theory like yes second chances yes reconnection yes!

Entering the backstage tent of the festival, you were immediately hit with a wave of scorching heat, the sun's relentless rays seeping even through the canvas. The energy from the performance on stage outside was pulsing and lively, carried by the young artist who commanded the crowd's attention, music increasing the adrenaline in your blood. Yet even as you prepared for your own set, the background noise and excitement faded to a muted hum as you focused on your vocal exercises and cues. As you readied yourself, the atmosphere surrounding you was as sultry and intense as the heat outside, the hot air seemingly alive with a buzz of anticipation. 

With as much haste as the sound disappeared from your brain, a new, baritone voice flowed through the air. 

“Ah, sorry. Didn’t see you here.” 

You looked up from your daze and were met with a deep, hypnotic blue, one that would make even the skies jealous. The angles of his nose were perfectly shaped, as if God had taken extra time to mould the clay that would later take on his form. From the standpoint of a bystander, the two would seem like the sun and the moon; two opposites that seemingly complimented each other like second nature. As the silence lingered for a second too long and his gaze set comfortably on yours, you choked up the first words that came to mind.

“No worries! I was just lost in my own world there for a moment.”

He was entirely captivating — you were unsure of how to compose yourself as you burned under his stare. As if reading your mind, he quickly offers his hand out to you, eager to make any form of connection.

“You can call me Joost.” He urges, carefully tracing his eyes over every line in your face for a reaction.

Taking his hand in yours, you promptly share your name. A subtle yet powerful exchange — trading names — the fibres in which every invisible string between two people begins to entangle together. His hands felt as though they had once held the warmth of a flame, having the ability to breathe life into anything it touched. For lack of better word, you were electrified.

A careful knocking on the stage door alerted the two and prompted the release of your hands. Your manager walks in, choosing to ignore the other figure in the room.

“Sorry, you’re on in 3.” 

“I’ll be there, thanks, Jere.” He nods, closing the door with relative ease and resuming whatever words he was muttering into his walkie-talkie. 

A beat passes as Joost speaks up again, “Succes!” Smiling fervently, he lightly brushes the skin on your shoulder with his palm as he walks out into his own dressing room before you could even respond, taking with him the warmth of his presence.

Unsure of how to make sense of what had happened, you drowned in your own quandary. The blood in your veins were still pounding against the valves of your beating heart and your kidney was beginning to beat to the same rhythm. You were unsure of whether this was due to stage fright or your recent encounter, though it didn’t really matter anyways; it was the fact that they were both valid options. 

—-----------------------------------------------------------

As you step on stage, the roar of the crowd engulfed your senses like a crashing wave. Your eyes scan the sea of bodies, a kaleidoscope of colours and faces all there to witness your performance. Unconsciously, you were scouring for the blue that looked at you as if you had been the only girl in the world. 

Unbeknownst to you, he had joined the crowd to experience the passion that you had brought out with your music — he wanted to get to know you, and music is the window to one’s soul. As you sang your first song, it became adamantly clear to him how the atmosphere shifted and every light softened under your radiance. Your music highlighted the more subtle hues in life that Joost had not seen in awhile, eliciting memories of lustrous summers and fleeting springs; it felt as if his world, which was always turning at 100 kilometres an hour, began to slow. Your voice was mellow, it filled his eardrums and calmed the ringing which usually reverberated in every corner of his skull. He took note of everything you did, from the way you held your guitar to the reds blossoming on your fingertips as you held down on its strings. Ultimately, he was hopelessly captivated — by your lulling melody, your beauty, and the entirety of your being.

Diverting your eye from your guitar to the crowd, you locked your gaze on a familiar aquamarine — a shade you couldn’t get out of your head as it bloomed in your peripheral vision. A smile played on your lips; you couldn't help it. It was as if the corners of your mouth were tugged at, forcing them to curve upwards. The warmth which was previously absent in your stomach began to reignite and it felt as if rainbows were being drawn on the skies of your psyche. Being on stage in front of thousands has never felt so intimate before.

—-----------------------------------------------------------

As your final song comes to an end, your cheeks are numb from the constant smiling — not performatively but rather from sheer happiness. You step off the stage and back into the backstage tents, still dazed from the trance you were under as you had, prior, melted under the beautiful stranger’s gaze. You could feel a familiar set of eyes linger on you and you’re met at eye level with two deep blue pools. He spoke up gently, breaking the silence between the two before it could settle on your shoulders.

Joost grins at you, his eyes still sparkling with the same intensity as before. "You were phenomenal up there," he says. "I couldn't take my eyes off you."

You felt your cheeks flush a rosy pink, with a shy smile you replied, “you weren’t too bad either.”

Joost let out a hearty chuckle, amused by your comment. "Just 'not too bad'?" he teased, feigning offence. A beat passes as you forget to answer, as if wind had been sucked out of you from the mere sight of his laughter. Taking the initiative, he inquires you; “Hey, uh, I was thinking of walking around some more, take a look at some other stages if you wanted to hang out for a bit?”

Your eyes sparkle with a glint of excitement, “I was actually thinking the same thing — I’d love to join you.” Your voice cracking ever so subtly, betraying your nervous plight.

Carefully, he took your hand and started walking out of the tent, leading you towards the next stage — “so you don’t get lost.”

As you shuffle through the labyrinth of crowds, your bodies are constantly pushed together, every small touch prompting an exchange of warmth in return. His doting predisposition was almost overbearing, each time he looked back to make sure you were still behind him was so subtle, yet so appetent. The implications of it all, his hands on yours as you traverse the field of human bodies, wide open for the consumption of a myriad of prying eyes, was not lost on either of you, yet it remained a fact that both of you choose to ignore.

Breathing away the air of silence encapsulating the two of you, he speaks up. “What kind of music are you into? Like what artist do you want to see right now?”

You hadn’t realised how your gaze was so readily fixed on him — as if it were a force of habit, until his voice fills the silence you’d had in your head; racing at 100 kilometres an hour to catch up to the speed of your heart. Without much time to formulate a response, you quickly mutter the first few words that enter your thoughts. “I’ll watch anyone! Plus — maybe you could introduce me to some new music?”

Your words elicited a gentle smile as he tugged you towards a new area; “truth be told I don’t know who’s performing either — but we can discover together!”

As you settle into the crowd and your bodies blended in to the splatter of colour amidst dancing souls, he rested his hand on the small of your back, fingers fidgeting with the fabric of your top — holding dear to you and praying to a higher being so as to not get partitioned in the middle of thousands.

Although you were sure your attention was focused on the performance just ahead, you could feel each time his gaze averted into your eye line — his stare burned into your cheek the same way a kiss would; searing your flesh with a romance that lingered like sun rays on burnt skin. You used each chance he looked away to do the same — to leave a persistent stain on his peripheral vision which sent his heart to the moon. This prolonged back and forth lasted all the way to the end of the artist’s set, his songs being nothing more than background noise as your heart pounded prolifically in your ears. 

Eager to extend your time together, you asked to buy him a drink — with which he gladly accepted.

—-----------------------------------------------------------

Minutes passed into hours discreetly — you were lost in conversations about everything and nothing at the same time, until the noise settled and the crowd thinned, bringing your conversation down to weak attempts at staying in each other’s company.

You take the final sip of your drink; you promised yourself this’d be the last. Eased by the momentum of your mutual exchange, you ask him: “Do you ever look out into the crowd and realise that every person that everyone’s ever met was brought together by chance?”

“Like how your set just so happened to be right after mine?”

Hesitantly, you replied, stepping on eggshells as you cherry pick each word carefully, trying to gauge some meaning behind your blooming relationship. “Yeah, I mean like what if I hadn’t been in that tent when you came in? Would you still watch my set? Would you be having a drink with me right now?”

“I’m pretty sure someone with a presence like yours would’ve caught my attention one way or another.” His response was delivered almost immediately, as if the answer were the most obvious thing in the world.

Attempting to hide the smile inevitably slipping onto your face and the pink creeping up your cheeks, you let out a sincere chuckle. “I’m glad you think so.”

As your conversations drift with the sunlight, a call from your manager reminds you of your responsibilities, prompting an exchange of see you soons and subtle glances over the shoulder as you both depart from each other’s warmth.

It was hard to be around him — to be close but not close enough. To say he charmed you would be an understatement, and to say that he didn’t feel the same would be a lie. Being back in your hotel room reminded you of how intoxicating it felt to be near him, and it felt like an itch as you traced back the steps that you took so carefully around him; how the two of you danced around each other so gently. You weren't sure you'd ever cross paths again; the regret of not being forward about how you'd felt with him loomed around you as you lay in bed, phone in hand, wondering if he was still thinking about you. His name rested on the tip of your tongue as you drifted off to sleep, naturally burrowing a home in your chest.

—-----------------------------------------------------------

Waking up to waning notifications and texts hardly alerted you as you were seemingly stuck in the same state of wonderstruck that you had been in the day before. As you recollect your fleeing consciousness, the blots of colour on your screen begin to form coherent shapes, revealing texts from your manager and PR team, all addressed at several tweets and posts discussing you; their messages growing more and more panicked with each one. With a deep breath, you clicked on the Twitter app, bracing yourself for what you knew was coming.

The tweets were overwhelming, discussing everything from your performance to your interaction with Joost. People were making assumptions about your relationship and dissecting every detail of your interaction.

Mindlessly scrolling through the barrage of tweets, a text from a number you have labelled as “Joost :)” halts every single movement and thought previously in motion.

J: hello girlfriend :D 

R: joost?

J: have u seen what theyre saying about us??

R: its really brutal

they dont hesitate

J: this is my first time experiencing something like this (・´з`・)

R: me too!

i hope youre ok with that kind of stuff though, its pretty intrusive

J: yup, but im going to have to get used to this (╥﹏╥)

and you are cute, so i dont mind  (⁀ᗢ⁀)

R: oh thank you, youre cute too :D 

You smiled as you read Joost's messages, feeling a warm sense of relief and happiness. Despite the gossip and speculation online, he seemed to be handling it all in stride – easing any preexisting worry that he’d be weirded out or pushed away by the assumptions forced upon you and your relationship. You stared intently at your screen, your fingers hovering anxiously over the keypad. Your heart rate quickened as you contemplated hitting send on the message, a wave of trepidation washing over her. 

R: maybe we can talk more over lunch? just to make sure ure all good!

Was it too desperate? Did it seem like you wanted a second? First? Date amidst an unfortunate impasse? Would he be discouraged? Did he even want to see you again?

J: i’d love 2!!!!

Oh. You release the breath you hadn’t noticed you were holding in, letting the pressure dissipate from your shoulders. Despite the weight of the situation, you found solace in knowing that he had playfully accepted the circumstances and was willing to brace the full extent of the accusations by risking another day with you. Finalising the details for lunch, you got ready and swiftly made your way out the door – towards the destined spot.

—-----------------------------------------------------------

Stumbling through the city, you took in the sights as you passed by slews of oscillating buildings and unnamed parks. Unanswered messages from your manager remain rigid and unread as you lock away your phone, looking forward for signs of the restaurant you were to meet Joost in. Determination sets in to the anterior parts of your brain – the tenacity to express your interest in growing together with the man you had just met the day prior. Although it was sudden, you were sure that getting to know him would only continue to confirm the feelings beginning to harbour at the base of your judgement. Rounding the last corner, you were hit by a familiar warmth; it was sudden, intrusive, preponderant, and all-consuming simultaneously.

“Hallo!” The Dutch accent slipped into his greeting like honey, the same baritone voice you’d come to be acquainted with to fill the air around you, as a blanket would. Suddenly every smell, minute sound, or gentle breeze that was prevalent became subdued – every one of your senses focusing on the presence of the alluring companion standing in front of you.

Your grin evident in your voice, you reply tenderly, “hello, stranger.”

[eppysboys]

Peter Brown & Tommy Nutter

Peter Brown first spied Tommy Nutter in 1967, at a dinner party thrown by Brian Epstein in his Georgian town house on Chapel Street... It was a warm evening, summer, June or July. An intimate sit-down for a handful of people. Peter thought Tommy was remarkably cute, though Tommy, perhaps dazed by his surroundings and the famous host, gave no indication of even noticing Peter.

Afterwards, Brian had a conversaion with Peter in which he made some 'approving comments' about their young guest. It was not that Brian Epstein had any interest in Tommy for himself; despite his stiff-collar demeanour, he preferred rough trade to 'gay boys'. But he knew what Peter liked, and was, in that regard, always encouraging.

-

(The day after Brian Epstein's death)

The next day, [Peter] was standing in Brian's drawing room, looking through a window onto a street that had just been swept through by paparazzi, like a flash flood. He had already shared the news with the Beatles, who were still on their retreat in Wales with the Maharishi Mahesh Yogi. Peter was numb, but starting to realise that he would be primary witness at the inevitable inquest. And that the enormous responsibility of running the Beatles' office would now fall squarely on his shoulders.

At that moment, the telephone rang. Peter walked across and picked it up.

'How are you?' asked Tommy Nutter, who had somehow acquired Brian's private number.

'Awful,' Peter said, 'Really awful.'

So the young man from the summer dinner party invited himself over for company and comfort.

-

On a Friday in August, Peter was sitting at his desk wrapping up some work when Paul McCartney called him on the telephone. For the previous few days, the Beatles had been working on a new single, an experimental track that had caused tension in the group - McCartney versus Harrison over guitar riffs - and raised the concern of their record producer, George Martin, who'd suggested it might be too long for radio play. Now it was nearly completed, and Paul asked Peter to come round for a first listen.

(Paul and John have Peter listen to 'Hey Jude', which he is impressed by and loves.)

Paul and John told Peter they wanted to go out and celebrate. But Peter demurred; he was to drive out to the country with Tommy for the weekend. Paul told him to call Tommy and bring him along; they had all met him by now, and there was no problem with Peter having a boyfriend.

When Peter called him using the studio payphone, Tommy refused, wilfully non-compliant. He didn't want to go out and celebrate in Soho. It took Paul to snatch the reciever out of Peter's hand and beg him to 'come hear this' before he finally surrended.

Tommy arrived at Trident and was installed in the armchair, told to prepare himself. The song was cued for a second play. As he then listened for the full seven minutes and eleven seconds, Paul and John watched him closely, trying to gauge his reaction.

After it was finished, Tommy remained impassive, unreadable. There was a long pause.

He told them he didn't like it.

The Beatles were 'crestfallen', Peter recalls, until they were informed this was Tommy's idea of a droll joke. Indeed, Tommy would eventually admit that 'Hey Jude' was 'the most incredible song... because we'd never heard anything like that before'. What impressed him was not so much its groundbreaking form, though, as how uncalculated it seemed. In Tommy's view, the Beatles hadn't set out to break the mould; they'd just wanted to express themselves. And expressing themselves - honestly expressing themselves - meant making the song in a way that happened, by the by, to be groundbreaking. 'It just came from within them,' he later said admiringly. 'That's what they wanted to do and they did it properly.'

"House of Nutter - The Rebel Tailor of Savile Row" by Lance Richardson

[theladyofbloodshed]

Chapter 5

His wife was a stubborn madam. Cassian was glad for it. He needed his ego matching sometimes. He wasn’t always hot temper, he could be moulded and softened – but he wasn’t quite sure yet if his wife could. Nesta seemed brittle like she might snap if he pushed her too hard. The spark had been there when he’d tried to touch her. Invoking her anger was better than the shell of a female she’d been during the ceremony. Already, he was guilty that she hadn’t understood the words that were exchanged. He would teach her his language. It could be a way for them to bond. Illyrian was a beautiful language. With little else, they had plenty of songs and stories to keep them going through the bleak winter months. An immersion to Illyria would show her that his people were good and deserved to live.

At no point during the first few hours did Nesta make any attempt to join him in their marital bed nor did she make any attempt to leave. She simply remained huddled by the brazier, adding an extra log to it now and then. Once, she had edged close to the bed and Cassian had held his breath whilst pretending to sleep, but she simply dragged a blanket off the edge and wrapped it around herself.

Cassian was stubborn but he also valued his sleep, so he stopped feigning it and let himself sink into a slumber, safe with the knowledge that his wife was mere feet away – and that she couldn’t kill him in his sleep.

He was an early riser – and it seemed his wife was too. Cassian strode across the tent and attempted to kiss her forehead, but it was met with a swipe of her arms in the air and a hiss like a cat. Her hair was already neatly pinned back. Nesta’s eyes were bloodshot and there was a pallor to her skin. She hadn’t slept, not for a moment. The sight of the plate still half-full had his brow furrowing.

‘Why didn’t you eat?’

‘Not hungry.’

She was muted again as Cassian polished off the leftovers. It allowed him a chance to watch her. If Cassian didn’t know any better, he’d say the weight of the world was upon her shoulders. What worries could the sister of the high lady have? An eternal life of beauty and riches was one many would kill over.

He fished through the pile of clothing he’d had made for her to better suit the Illyrian weather – and to integrate her better. Nesta stood gripping the gown to her chest until he looked away, and only then did she hurriedly change clothes. 

‘Why can’t I wear my clothes?’

He touched two fingers to the thick fabric and was met with another snarl from his wife. ‘Not harming you,’ he said, unable to keep the taunt from his voice. ‘This is better for the cold.’

‘It is summer,’ she insisted.

Cassian laughed richly. ‘An Iron Crest summer, sweetheart. You’ll be lucky if it’s warm enough to roll your sleeves up.’

‘And winter?’

‘Well, Rhysand has agreed to build us a home here. So, when you meet with the shadowsinger, ensure you emphasise the necessity of haste.’ His fingers caressed her face and he withdrew them before she could swipe at him. ‘You won’t freeze. I have plenty of ways to keep you warm.’

‘How has nobody ever run you through with a blade?’

Nesta’s fire was beautiful. A female who traded barbs was so much better than one who kept her head down. Cassian loved to battle. Her insults were practically foreplay to him, so he couldn’t help himself from grinning down at her. The Mother had chosen well.

He gestured to a scar on his abdomen. ‘Somebody tried to gut me like a fish once.’

‘Who was it? I should like to shake their hand.’

‘That would be me,’ came the low, cold voice of the shadowsinger.

Cassian’s anger that the male had dared to enter his tent unpermitted was soon washed away with a greater fury as his wife stood and allowed Azriel to embrace her. She leaned into his touch, found comfort in it. Her fingertips dug into his shoulders as Nesta held the shadowsinger tightly.

Her eyes were closed as Azriel peeled away. His hazel eyes searched her face.

‘You’re well?’

Cassian knew the question he wanted to ask. Did the Illyrian brute harm you?

Nesta dipped her chin in acknowledgement.

‘I’ll give you privacy. Bring Nesta to the brown tent on the eastern edge of camp. You’ll know it when you see it, shadowsinger.’

Cassian sauntered away, whistling as he went, to pretend that leaving his wife clutching Azriel’s arm didn’t feel like a grave wound. The shadowsinger was familiar, that was all. It did give him a little hope that she hadn’t entirely discounted Illyrians as a race worth keeping around.

He knew shadows would be sifting through every part of his tent, rifling through his belongings in search of secrets to present to their master. They would find nothing. Cassian was an open book. He kept no secrets. There would be no secret missives or written plots against the high lord because Cassian couldn’t write. He’d learnt to find the blessing in it rather than the curse. His plots were made by mouth alone with no evidence to be traced.

‘A late morning,’ said Balthazar in greeting.

‘I have a very beautiful wife,’ he replied.

The male dipped his head then joined him on the walk through the camp. Males were already training for the day. Each ring was carefully observed to report back on weaknesses. More than fighting, they’d go through rigorous drills to ensure cohesion in the ranks. They were to move as one fluid unit. When the call to battle came, Cassian’s males would survive.

He could hardly believe that it was the same camp that he’d been dumped in after breaking Rhysand’s bones. Only Devlon had stopped Cassian killing him that day by hauling him away by the scruff of his neck. Change had been difficult. There was no soft stepping or gentle words. Cassian had been a battering ram to force the changes he’d wanted to see. It would have been so easy to fall onto the same well-trodden paths as the others - to become bitter and jaded and hate the world. Hope could be a powerful thing. Hope had been the burning force that led Cassian along year after year. He dreamed of Illyria being a place that bloomed rather than a place to die. He bided his time, growing stronger, more powerful, until he was able to challenge the previous lord and hold the mantle for his own. He’d shed more blood keeping it until the tide began to change. The lower ranks – the bastards and weaker ones – and the youth that Cassian had always taken care of, shared his rations with, helped build tents with, came to his side. And they outnumbered the others. It was either follow or be conquered.

‘Isn’t it your day off?’

Balthazar shrugged. ‘I figured an extra pair of hands could be of assistance today.’

‘You think I can’t handle my wife?’

His friend snorted in response. ‘I’m surprised you’re alive.’

‘There’s a magical contract,’ Cassian admitted, feeling sheepish. ‘She’s forbidden from hurting me.’

That made Balthazar laugh himself hoarse. ‘The famed Lord of Bloodshed hiding behind magic so his wife doesn’t kill him.’

‘Laugh all you want. I’m glad to have a wife who’s capable of the act. I don’t like them meek.’

‘You don’t like them at all,’ he countered. ‘Or, you didn’t.’

Most Illyrians had weak magic, but the few like him that did have power were only cursed with the power to kill. Not a single Illyrian had ever shown the ability to heal. The high lord could have situated a few of the many healers at his disposal in Illyria, knowing full well that they ended their days sore and bloodied, but he did not. They were left only with herbal remedies that did little. With no way to truly prevent pregnancy, Cassian had never taken the risk. No female had ever really turned his head either. As a product of their society, females were meek. Too many of the females in Illyria were downtrodden. Whenever he saw a female with her head down, he almost wanted to marry her to simply save her from the family she had. But he couldn’t marry them all. He could be the change to the males though. Could put a stop to it for the next generation.

‘Well, this one gave me a piece of her mind when we first met,’ he admitted. ‘Couldn’t say no after that.’

That, and the fact it had felt as though an arrow had been shot into his heart when she looked at him with her blazing silver eyes. Mating bonds were sacred things. He was glad that he had waited. Glad that it was Nesta who he would share a forever with.

‘Well, I’ll be around if you need me.’

‘I won’t,’ Cassian reassured him.

Balthazar simply snorted again as he strolled away.

Cassian had done the morning rounds, checking in on his camp, when Azriel deigned to bring Nesta to him.

‘Fly away to your master.’

Azriel murmured something too low to hear in Nesta’s ear and Cassian felt himself tensing at the brush of his lips upon her skin. Then he was gone, dissolved into shadow.

His wife folded her arms across her chest. ‘What am I supposed to do?’

There were a group of females gathered already in the great tent who were clearing away the communal breakfast. It was always the same thing – a runny porridge – but in the summer months, they had fruit to go with it. It filled a hole and provided energy.

‘You’ll be preparing lunch.’

‘I’m an awful cook,’ she grumbled.

Cassian tutted. ‘That’s because you’ve not been cooking Illyrian dishes. Caeria, this is your new apprentice.’ He took Nesta by the shoulders to present her to one of the female elders in the camp. She had a sharp-tongue but a good heart. It was Caeria who oversaw the cooking and planned meals for such a number. ‘You’ll find my wife eager and willing. Make sure she eats then after lunch, send her to the big house.’

In front of him, Nesta seemed to simmer like a pot ready to boil over. For good measure, Cassian gave her a pat on the backside to urge her forwards.

Nesta’s head whipped round, nostrils flared. ‘How dare you.’

‘It didn’t harm you, did it?’ Cassian grinned.

She pressed her hands together in prayer then inhaled deeply. ‘When you die, this world will celebrate.’

He couldn’t help but laugh. ‘Oh, look who found their claws.’

‘Do you plan to haunt me all day or may I have respite from your company?’

The females exchanged wary looks. Had a male spoken to him that way – without respect – it would be Cassian’s duty to ensure they remembered who they were speaking to. This female, this utterly brilliant female that he had the pleasure to call his mate, could shred him with her words for all he cared. He found joy in it.

‘I will find you after lunch. Would you like a kiss?’

‘Certainly not.’

He gave an exaggerated wince. ‘Soon you’ll beg me for them.’

‘If I ask Caeria to poison your meal, would the binding of our agreement allow that?’

Caeria went pale. ‘I would do no such thing, Lord Cassian.’

***

The arrogant toerag that was unfortunately her husband departed the tent with a spring in his step. She hated the male. There had to be a way to be free from him. A dissolution of the marriage. Perhaps Azriel would kill him for her. But he was valued here, Nesta could see already. There was a different feel to this camp than Windhaven.

Caeria directed her to a huge pile of vegetables that needed peeling.

‘You make breakfast and lunch every day?’

‘Yes. Evening meal too,’ she said, gesturing to the tent where many hands were busy. The bulk were females although there were younger males who weren’t quite adults helping to haul heavy sacks of grain and crops.

‘It must takes hours.’

Caeria gave a clucking laugh, ‘It takes an army to feed an army.’

It certainly did, Nesta realised. Many of the females who’d been involved with breakfast were the earliest risers of the camp. However, once they had cleaned up the many dishes, they departed for the day, their job done. Caeria explained how Cassian had changed things. All had to work for the benefit of the camp although it was only a few hours per day then they were free to take care of their homes or engage in other pursuits. A new set of workers arrived after breakfast had been eaten to assist with the lunch preparations then another group would come for dinner. They worked for three days then had a day of rest.

‘And do you have any choice in what you do?’ Nesta flexed her fingers which were stiff from clutching a knife. She was slower to peel the squashes with their thick skins and for everyone that she managed, Caeria had peeled two.

‘Mostly, it’s the way it has always been. Females clean and cook within the camp while males train. We also prepare clothing and take care of the children. The males have additional work – they must take care of the fields and the forges.’ Caeria offered her a brief smile. ‘Instead of trying to survive, we all work together now. These meals are provided free of coin, but to eat then we must help to plough the fields, to harvest the crops, to tend to the animals and tan leathers.’

She was fascinated by it. She was led to believe that Illyrians were purely violent with their only instinct being to fight. There was a heavy emphasis on agriculture here and everybody contributing to a flourishing society.

‘And the males enjoy this change?’

Caeria gave a slow nod. ‘Change has been slow, but it has happened. They work differently to us. Either they have morning duties then train after lunch or vice versa. Younger members of the camp train less, but apprentice in every area of the camp. Blacksmithing is popular in the winter for its warmth – and this tent for cooking. You will find that even on rest days, many of us still come to help where needed. Many hands make light work, Nesta.’

The pace of cooking was quicker than Nesta could truly manage so she felt as if she was treading water and trying to keep from drowning. Her headache remained pulsing quietly in her forehead and only when she grew dizzy did Caeria order her to sit and drink. She felt guilty to not offer any more help, but she was more of a hindrance. Food was given to her – a plate of squash and lentil dhal with half a flatbread – which she forced upon her aching stomach.

When they began cleaning the dishes, more arrived ready to prepare the evening meal. It was a machine that never slowed. Caeria rubbed a hand against Nesta’s back and prompted her on towards the big house.

She wasn’t quite sure what to expect inside, but a sudden onslaught of screaming and laughter was not it. Children barrelled down corridors or flew over her head. Some were hardly more than toddlers, but others were on the cusp of adulthood.

‘What is this place?’

‘A home for waifs and strays,’ announced Cassian as he waded towards them through the mass of children.

Caeria asked, ‘Lunch went down well?’

Cassian spread out his hands in answer. ‘Very well. Thank you for taking care of my wife.’

She bid them goodbye then Cassian slipped an arm around Nesta’s shoulders. She quickly threw it off, anger flaring in her chest. With food in her belly, Nesta wanted to return to the tent and sleep. Her night spent shivering was catching up to her now.

Cassian led the way up the stairs to the top floor where there were many beds organised in rows. Nesta counted thirty of them. A few girls sat on the beds talking and quickly fell into silence at their approach.

‘The girls room,’ he said, before dipping his head to them and leading Nesta down another set of stairs. This room had less beds but there were wooden toys and even a few woven baskets for babies. ‘This for the littlest ones. Those two beds in the corners are for females who sleep in the room with them.’

His hand pushed gently against her shoulder blades as they arrived back to the ground floor, but Cassian wasn’t done. They went beneath the ground where there were even more beds prepared. At his approach, the boys in the room hurriedly got to their feet as a mark of respect. There were only a few windows that allowed light in, but there seemed to be nowhere else in the house to keep them.

Before Cassian could speak, a boy flew across the room and latched his arms around Nesta’s waist.

‘Fedor,’ she breathed, a hand stroking through his dark hair.

A bell tolled through the house and the boys scarpered from the room. Fedor gave her a last squeeze then he was on his way too.

‘Where are they going?’

Cassian stroked her hair before Nesta could slap his massive hand away. ‘They live here permanently. These are the children without parents. We keep the boys and girls as far away from each other as possible and there are overnight duties here. In the last decade, there have been fewer arrivals from this camp – but we’ve had more from other camps like Fedor.’

He led her back towards the staircase and she asked, ‘What do they do here?’

‘They have lessons. The same for boys and girls. Sewing and tanning. Helping Caeria with the cooking. The boys love to show how strong they are and carry the crops from the fields to her.’ The hand on her back was hot. ‘And that leads me to this.’

Nesta entered a room where around forty pairs of eyes were staring at her. Boys and girls were sat on benches at long tables with crumbs from lunch underneath them on the floor. The voices of younger children echoed through the halls as her group remained staring.

‘What am I supposed to do?’ Nesta whispered.

‘Teach them,’ he said simply. ‘Figure out what you need moving forward and we’ll make a plan. I’ll come back when it’s dark to escort you through camp.’ Cassian pointed a warning finger at the class. ‘Be good. My wife will tell me who has been the best.’

They all sat a little straighter on the benches, peering at her like a curiosity.

***

The hours whittled away quickly. Ruling was difficult for Cassian. Mostly he made it up as he went along and pretended that it was all part of his greater plan. When he trained, that was different. Time would speed up in those moments. Nothing felt more natural than a blade in his hands, the thrum of battle in his blood.

It was dark when he rushed to the big house for Nesta. The children were already deep into their dinner, the noise unbearable for long. But he was happy to see laughter on their faces. They would never know the struggles that he did. Twelve females oversaw the house, taking it in turns to be there during the days or night. They cared for the babies as if they were their own. Many of them had either lost their children or had never been able to experience carrying their own. More than a roof or food, these children experienced love. That would change their lives.

‘Where is my wonderful wife?’

Face taut, Nesta sat beside a window on the stairwell. He wouldn’t let her go to the tent until she’d sat and eaten. She forced in the mouthfuls with a bitter expression upon her face which he couldn’t tell was from the taste or directed at him. He did have the sense that a storm was coming for him.

Back in their tent, Cassian lit a fire in the brazier to chase away the edge of night then leant against the desk. ‘How was your day, my darling?’

‘Don’t give me that,’ she warned, brows raised.

‘I thought you’d like it. You seemed to enjoy Fedor’s company last time you were in Windhaven.’

‘You threw me in that room with all of those children staring at me, Cassian. I was completely unprepared and out of my depth.’

He frowned. ‘You can read and write, can’t you?’

Nesta made a choking noise. ‘And you expected me to teach forty of them with no parchment, no ink, no blackboard, no preparation. Some of them only speak Illyrian, did you know that? Do you know how humiliating it was to stand there with them gawping at me. All day long, I’ve been told to do this, do that, with no sensitivity to what I might want, to how I might feel.’

‘Nesta, what I-’

‘Do not interrupt me. I haven’t finished,’ she pressed on, voice rising. Cassian waited silently for her to continue. ‘Every choice is taken from me. In my life before, in Velaris, and now. Do you think I wanted faeries to come into my life and ruin it? Do you think I wanted to be forced into the Cauldron where I was broken and burnt until I became this… this monstrosity. Nobody has taught me about this magic writhing inside me. Nobody bothered to tell me how my life will change. And now this. You. My choice has been taken from me again. And this. This is my eternity? Forced to be at your side? Under your command? I didn’t choose this.’

The words were agony for her, he could tell from the tremble in her body, the pain flaring in her silver eyes.

‘The Mother decides,’ he said softly.

Cassian hadn’t ever expected to find a mate. Mating bonds were so rare and only ever occurred for an Illyrian with a high fae who would never look twice at them. And this female was so different to the others. So full of fire and pain.

‘The Mother?’ Nesta’s voice pitched even higher. ‘I am to believe in a deity that has never existed for me before. And why? What do I have to believe in? You are the one who dragged me to Illyria, not a make-believe figure.’

A pain like an arrow lanced through Cassian’s heart with the realisation. His voice was a whisper, as he said, ‘You don’t feel it.’

Cassian braced his hand upon the desk to keep from staggering. Only he had felt their bond snap. Nesta wasn’t arguing with him or throwing insults his way because she was playing hard to get. No, she was genuine because she didn’t feel the bond. The bond that Cassian had though about minute after minute since it snapped. The bond that had filled him with such joy.

He felt sick with himself. He had bargained for her like cattle, believing it was the only way for them to carve time together and accept the bond. No, to Nesta, he was an Illyrian brute, the same as all the others who had demanded a bride and she was the casualty. She was scared of him. The trembling last night hadn’t been in excitement over their marriage, no she was terrified of what he’d do to her – that he’d be the brute all Illyrians were.

Even now, with all of her words laid out in the open, Nesta seemed to shrink back from him. Her arms covered her body, shoulders curling inwards as if she was about to cower from his anger.

In silence, Cassian departed into the dark.

[coochiequeens]

A notable diversity among the artisans was identified, as men, women, and children actively participated in making figurines, challenging the preconceived notion that this was an exclusively male craft." In other words archaeologists were stunned that women also worked in the family businesses and children were trained in the family business while still young. 🤦‍♀️

by Guillermo CarvajalJanuary 14, 2025

Example of a figurine (H20257) from Thonis-Heracleion with close-up of the fingerprints found on the reverse and interior. Credit: Franck Goddio / Hilti Foundation

An archaeological study published in the Oxford Journal of Archaeology by Leonie Hoff analyzes the fingerprints impressed on terracotta figurines found in the ancient city of Thonis-Heracleion in Egypt (located near Alexandria, with its ruins discovered 2.5 kilometers offshore and 10 meters underwater).

This analysis, which combines advanced technology with traditional archaeological methods, reveals who the artisans were that molded these pieces between the 7th and 2nd centuries BCE, offering unprecedented details about the organization of labor in ancient Egypt.

Thonis-Heracleion, a thriving Egyptian port located near the Nile’s mouth, flourished as a vital hub for trade and control between the Greek and Egyptian worlds. The city, founded in the 8th century BCE, became a cultural and economic center until its prominence was overshadowed by Alexandria. A natural disaster in the 2nd century BCE caused its collapse, and it remained hidden underwater until its rediscovery in the 1990s.

Map of the known sanctuaries and major finds at Thonis-Heracleion. Credit: Franck Goddio / IEASM

In this context, the terracotta figurines found at the site provide crucial clues about daily practices, cultural interactions, and the division of labor in a cosmopolitan community.

The study focuses on nine figurines selected from over 60 that show visible fingerprints. These impressions were analyzed using Reflectance Transformation Imaging (RTI), a method that measures the density and amplitude of epidermal ridge patterns in the fingerprints. These data, cross-referenced with modern studies of fingerprint density, enabled the estimation of the artisans’ sex and age.

The study highlights three key findings that redefine our understanding of artisanal production in ancient Thonis-Heracleion. First, a notable diversity among the artisans was identified, as men, women, and children actively participated in making figurines, challenging the preconceived notion that this was an exclusively male craft.

Silicone moulded copy of imprints found on the interior of H20257, including measurements taken for ridge breadths (lines) and ridge densities (squares). Credit: Franck Goddio / Hilti Foundation

Moreover, the fingerprints reveal a collaborative process in which children, likely apprentices, worked under the supervision of adults, pointing to the existence of a structured training system within the workshops. Lastly, a significant cultural impact was observed, evidenced by the adoption of Greek techniques, such as using molds and fine materials, which were integrated with local styles and characteristics to create unique products reflecting the fusion of both cultures.

The presence of children in the workshops suggests a family-based artisanal economy, while the inclusion of women indicates a more equitable division of labor than previously assumed.

Differences between imported and locally produced figurines reflect dynamic cultural interactions. Greek objects tend to be more sophisticated and associated with predominantly male labor, while local pieces show greater diversity in participation.

This pioneering study in the use of fingerprints to understand Mediterranean archaeology lays the groundwork for broader research. Fingerprint analysis at other sites could reveal similar patterns and deepen our understanding of artisanal work and social relations in the ancient world.

SOURCES

Hoff, L. (2024) Fingerprints on figurines from Thonis-Heracleion. Oxford Journal of Archaeology, 43: 399–418. doi.org/10.1111/ojoa.12308