#and it's such a like rich part of the story

[onlyalittleperverse]

The videos support that it's nothing at all like a nazi salute, but also the main ingredient of the nazi salute is missing even if it did(but it doesnt) look like one. 😉 which is the "nazi" part. YOU KNOW?? THE NAZI SALUTE, REQUIRES YOU TO SALUTE....A NAZI....RIGHT?

Fucking dumbass. Unless maybe biden was at the rally...was he? He's for sure the closest thing to a nazi we've seen in a while, racist (if you don't vote for me you're not black) or (poor kids are just as good as white kids...i mean rich kids) -or something to that effect.

Literally prosecuted his political enemies, sent the DOJ after trump, tried everything in their power to keep him off the ballad illegally even, Hillary used campaign funds to start a propaganda campaign about the Russia hoax, which is literally a federal crime, 🙄 you know thr way they wrnt after trump? For paying stormy? That's actually fake, he used personal funds to pay for that, that's not illegal, but Hillary actually used campaign funds, to start an illegal propaganda attack campaign, so not only did she use campaign funds illegally, but the attack campaign was also in violation of federal laws, in violation of campaign laws and rules, if trump should be charged and fined for what he did, she should be doing life for what she did.

The biden regime was also doing illegal business practices, and paying off the press to suppress the hunter laptop story.

Oh, and the classified documents, trump had i place with classified documents that no one else had, or had access too.

But biden? He had 12 locations where he had piles of classified documents, dating back to the 70s, THE 70S! HE WAS ON A COMMITTEE THAT LITERALLY DELT WITH THE MISHANDLING OF CLASSIFIED DOCUMENTS BY GOVERNMENT OFFICIALS!!! YET HE STILL MISHANDLED CLASSIFIED DOCUMENTS BY THE TRUCK LOAD!!

Holy fuck are these people corrupt. It's literally insane, I'm not saying trump does no wrong, I'm sure he does plenty, but everything they accuse trump of doing, they do far worse, to a massively greater level, they are significantly more guilty than trump on every level. 😳

Besides, you can't get more nazi like than old creepy...i mean sleepy 😴 Joe.

And we have DOJ testimony and investigations to prove it. All of it.

@the-lone-star-wolf Youre a fucking illiterate magat racist homophobe who doesnt do their own research and spreads misinformation. Ill show you a fucking nazi, look in the mirror and then at trump and elon.

[burningembers91]

Green Eyed Monster - Park Gyeong-Seok x Fem!Reader

Follow up piece to:

Loving You From Afar The Shape of You Family Unit The Artist's Muse Breaking Eggs Knock at the Door

Synopsis: Park Gyeong-Seok's ex-wife has returned, determined to take back what's hers. But you're not going down without a fight.

A/N: So this piece is somewhat of a filler, to introduce Gyeong-Seok's wife and set up the next part of the story :)

Kim Mi-Na had always been selfish. She’d spent most of her life riding the coattails of others, using them until she got what she wanted, before leaving them high and dry. She never felt remorse for her actions; in her view if people were dumb enough to fall for her bullshit, they deserved to be taken advantage of.

Park Gyeong-Seok had been the perfect person for Mi-Na to sink her acrylic claws into. He was handsome, he had big dreams, and he was head over heels for her. She latched on like a parasite, clinging to him as he worked his way towards success. Gyeong-Seok was a successful artist, who had dreams of opening his own gallery one day. Mi-Na knew that galleries could make a lot of money, and if she twisted this man tightly enough around her finger, she’d never have to work again.

But she hadn’t on planned on getting pregnant, hadn’t planned on giving birth to a baby whose medical needs would almost certainly drain her pitiful husband’s bank account. As the perfect life she had planned for herself spectacularly fell apart, Mi-Na did what she did best; she ran away. For three years she bounced between men, bleeding them dry of cash before moving on. She received the divorce papers from Gyeong-Seok’s lawyers on the grounds of malicious desertion and wondered bitterly how he’d managed to scrape together enough cash for a lawyer. She had no feelings for him or their daughter, she never had, but the fact that he was taking steps to get rid of her from their lives angered her. She thought about returning, but she couldn’t face having to care for a sickly thing like Na-Yeon.

It wasn’t until she saw you with her ex-husband that the green-eyed monster named jealously really raised its head. Three years it had been since she’d last seen Gyeong-Seok, and he appeared to be thriving. She’s spotted you out for lunch, playing happy families with the daughter she’d birthed. She had no idea who you were, but she had the means of finding out. Within 24 hours, Mi-Na had your name, address and your place of work. She followed you, watching as you took care of her daughter. She heard Na-Yeon call you mummy, saw how you loved her in a way Mi-Na never had. She watched as you held hands with Gyeong-Seok, as he got down on one knee and proposed to you. She’d left him because he could no longer give her the lifestyle she desired, and yet the envy that entwined itself around her soul was almost blinding. She decided in that moment that she’d tear apart the little family you’d created, would take back what was rightfully hers. She’d done her fair share of digging on Gyeong-Seok, and while he wasn’t the rich art gallery owner she’d envisioned, she was desperate for money, and he had a stable enough job now as a teacher. All she needed to do was play her cards right, and her ex would be putty in her hands once more.

***

You sat staring at the floor as Gyeong-Seok paced, his face flushed with anger. Na-Yeon had only just stopped crying, her soft snivels muted against your chest as you rocked her soothingly. You held her close, fear gripping you as you waited for Gyeong-Seok to speak. Mi-Na had upended your perfect life, demanding access to the child she’s never bothered to take an interest in. She’d stormed into your home, shouting Na-Yeon’s name, terrifying the little girl who had no idea who her mother was. You could feel yourself begin to shake, could feel the anger rising in you like a tidal wave. This was your family, and no one was going to take them away. She’d only left when you’d agreed to meet the next day, to hear what she had to say.

Gyeong-Seok knew Mi-na wouldn’t play fair. His efforts and money spent trying to divorce her had almost rendered him homeless, but it hadn’t broken him. it taken him a while to realise how abusive she’d been, how she’d used him for a comfortable lifestyle and nothing more. Now that you’d shown him what real love was, he’d been a fool to think Mi-Na ever cared for him.

“What are we going to do?” Your voice was quiet and hoarse as you clung to the little girl you loved as though she were your own. Mi-Na had sworn she’d get her daughter back, had demanded access to the child she’d neglected for three years. You weren’t sure if she’d been bluffing, but you were too scared to take your chances.

“I’m not going to let her win,” Gyeong-Seok promised, coming to sit next to you. “I promise you; Mi-Na will not break this family apart.”

You meant more to him that Mi-Na ever had, had been more of a mother to Na-Yeon than she ever could have been. Gyeong-Seok had been serious about creating a life with you, about marrying you, raising Na-Yeon together and maybe even having a child of your own.

He would meet his ex-wife tomorrow, but he would refuse to give into her demands. She had broken him, chewed him up and spit him out, and left her own daughter as if she were nothing. Mi-Na didn’t deserve a second chance, and Gyeong-Seok wouldn’t allow her to walk over him like she had done before.

Gyeong-Seok’s life was perfect, and he wasn’t about to let anyone take it away. If it was a fight Mi-Na wanted, then it was a fight she was going to get.

[interact-if]

Black History Month Author Spotlight: Lapin

To kickstart the Black History Month Author Spotlight series, I'd like to introduce everyone to our first IF author, Lapin (@harlequinoccult)!

(I had a ton of fun reading Lapin’s answers, and I’m sure you will too! Read on for a celebration of ‘weird,’ Lapin’s Black southern gothic / horror influences, and how a D&D game could lead to interactive fiction!

Lapin, thank you again for your candid, humorous responses, I am very honored to have gotten to know you better :D)

Author: Lapin

Black creole and cajun, artist and writer, and wannabe game developer

Games: Slaughter Squad (Horror, Slasher, Romance)

Synopsis: YOU HAVE A HUNGER A HUNGER THAT YOU’VE BEEN NEGLECTING For the most part, you’re a pretty normal mid-20-something year old who lives in a shitty apartment in the city. Well, except for one thing. Your.....”Associate” Carter “Dollface” Abernathy. Who is a murderer, and quite frankly, a sloppy one at that. And you’re the accessory to his crimes. No matter what way you’ve gotten to know the man, or how you feel about him, you’re stuck with him, and stuck with just being his little “helper” ........Or are you? Especially when you’re suddenly given a....Unique opportunity.

Games: The Valley of Luck (Fantasy, Adventure, Romance)

Synopsis: The Valley of Luck was said to be a myth. Something that grandparents would tell their grand-kids around a campfire. Even those who worshiped Lucian, The God of Luck, thought it nothing but an old wives tale. Until, one day, a man with an arm made of solid gold started telling people that he'd been there, that he'd seen the Valley. Word spread quickly, and suddenly, every continent was alight with the rumor that The Valley was real, that it could give you all the riches you could ever want, and then some. However, your quest, whether related to The Valley or not, will lead you down a much stranger path.

Quote from the interview:

My upbringing was a bit odd. I am the youngest of three, two older brothers, one being a half brother, in a black military household… Middle school Lapin was a jock. But, lo and behold, the internet started getting more popular and that kid's brain exploded from internet exposure, for better and for worse. … I feel that there is a specific and niche demographic of people like me that were raised by early 2000s to 2010s internet. And on that era of internet, were creepypastas, online horror, early ARGs….I ADORED internet horror, which was my gateway into classic horror, funnily enough. Slaughter Squad, in my eyes, is a letter to that black kid that wanted to be weird. Be weird, be messy, see a fucked up movie, get more out of life.

Read on for the full interview!

Tell me more about yourself! What are some things new readers or long-time readers might not know about you?

Both parts of my family are 100% from Louisiana, New Orleans and the deep south. My moms side have been there so long, we have two streets named after us.

Can you tell me a bit about what you’re working on right now and your journey into interactive fiction? What inspired the game/story you’re currently writing?

My main project, of course, is Slaughter Squad. I love slasher movies and horror media in general. But what I always noticed with horror/romance, at least in the visual novel scene, is that the main character is nearly always the one getting screwed over, so I thought, well, what if the bad guys actually are your peers? How would this dynamic change if they don't see you as prey? I never thought that premise would appeal so much to so many but hey, I can't complain! I adore seeing people having fun with the silly little concept I had.

Now, my secondary project, The Valley of Luck. Some may not know this, but this story is based off of a D&D campaign I DM'ed back in the day with my friends. All the ROs are NPCs that my friends had, or where going to encounter. I won't lie, I did shy away from it and changed some things when the whole debacle with Wizards of the coast (the company that "owns" D&D) Where making some...questionable decisions. But this story is my baby. My first born. This one has been in the works far longer than SLSQ and has a lot of background lore that I hope I get the opportunity to share.

I do have a few other projects bumping around, One I am particularly excited for, But that one will have to wait a little bit~

How has your identity, heritage/background, upbringing, or personal experiences influenced your storytelling or writing process? OR How does your work feature aspects of your identity / experience?

My upbringing was a bit odd. I am the youngest of three, two older brothers, one being a half brother, in a black military household. I never felt that I truly had a sense of identity until that household inevitably split up. Everyone talks about being the weird kid in middle school, but no one mentions being the "normal on the outside but wants to be the weird kid so bad its painful on the inside but can't because you were told that stuff is 'white people shit' " type of kid.

Middle school Lapin was a jock. But, lo and behold, the internet started getting more popular and that kid's brain exploded from internet exposure, for better and for worse. I was a little shitter on the internet, I can't lie about that, as much as I want to. But I feel that there is a specific and niche demographic of people like me that were raised by early 2000s to 2010s internet. And on that era of internet, were creepypastas, online horror, early ARGs....I ADORED internet horror, which was my gateway into classic horror, funnily enough. Slaughter Squad, in my eyes, is a letter to that black kid that wanted to be weird. Be weird, be messy, see a fucked up movie, get more out of life.

What does your writing process look like? Any rituals or habits? Any tips, tricks, philosophies or approaches that have worked very well for you?

Let your characters speak through you like you're being possessed by a demon.

What’s the one thing you’re really proud of that you’ve written so far? Do you have a favorite character or scene that you’ve written?

I am so serious.

is it wildly inconvenient? yes. does it help your writing a ton? also yes. Doing Roleplay with friends is a fantastic way to learn to do this. being a DM for a D&D game has basically made it so characters can simply speak from my brain at any given moment. It's also annoying because some of these people do NOT shut up. Learning how a character would react on the fly does wonders for dialogue writing and character analysis. Roleplay with your friends, or hell, strangers who are down to clown that could become friends. Be cringe. be free.

I love the opening to Slaughter Squad and if you told me to rewrite it with a gun to my head I would tell you to shoot me. I love how punchy it is and it came out exactly how I wanted it to. I don't play favorites with characters (<- lying) but my two favorites to write are the stinky little bastard cat Sterling in TVoL and.....Carter, from SLSQ. I love writing complete bastards. One being lighthearted and gets a pass for it because he's just a kitty cat and the other you want to actively beat his face in with your bare hands. It's SO funny.

If you were to say one thing to your readers, other authors, and/or the interactive fiction community: what would it be?

Write. Write it now. Doesn't have to be good doesn't have to be polish all that matters is that you WROTE IT. All the bells and whistles can come later!!!! Stop thinking about the later and think about the now!!!! Write what you love and never give two shits about if it's cringe!!! Be excellent to each other!!!

Any books, music, movies etc. you’re obsessed with at the moment, or which changed your life (or perspectives on something)?

GO LISTEN TO CHROMAKOPIA BY TYLER THE CREATOR RIGHT NOW!!!!!!!!!

This-or-that segment: (bold = Lapin’s pick)

Coffee or tea?

Early mornings or late nights?

City or countryside?

Angsty or Cozy romances? (Or enemies-to-lovers or best-friends-to-lovers?)  

Steady progress or frenzied binge-writing followed by periods of calm?

Summer or Winter?

First drafts or editing?

Introvert or extrovert?

Plotter or pantser?

Characters or plot first?

Lapin’s custom “this-or-that” pairing: Rain or Shine

More on Black Southern Gothic:

Black southern gothic can vary a lot, but when I think of it, I think of old semi abandoned wood shotgun houses in the swamp, all white tiny baptist churches where the white paint is peeling from the heat and humidity, riding horses down a dirt paved street while people still ride by in their old busted down 1960s chevys. Old plantation houses that have been reclaimed by the swamp. The dark, humid heat of the night on a street with no streetlights. Every house you see is absolutely haunted by something and not just ghosts. Voodoo and hoodoo is different than what people will tell you it is.

Sassafrass, Cypress and Indigo by Ntozake Shange, Sing, Unburied, Sing by Jessamin Ward, and anything by Toni Morrison 100%.

[4urvalidation]

can you make a story where rafe and reader broke up 3 years ago, but she comes back to Outer Banks only now she has a daughter(who looks just like Rafe) and a husband (Whom she doesn't really love) and rafe still loves her

Oh, why you gotta make the wheels in my brain turn like this 😩 Not a huge expert when it comes to writing anything Y/N related, but willing to give it a go.

Didn't expect to connect to this as much as I did, so hopefully if the inspiration still flows once I'm done with A Case of Limerence I might explore this story further.

As for now, please enjoy this little blurb.

SUMMARY: Three years ago, Kook!Princess and Rafe began a secret love affair that lasted for an entire summer, until her parents found out and forbade Rafe from ever seeing their daughter again. Now, twenty-two years old and somewhat sober, he spends his days working a dull office job at his father's company wondering if he'll ever get to relive the golden days of his teenage years.

That's when she shows up - his first love. His only love. With a husband and baby and Rafe's heart is almost on the brink of breaking all over again until he realizes the kid looks exactly like him.

CONTENT WARNING: Mentions of alcohol and drug use; sexual content - nothing too graphic but the implications are strong; Rafe is not a psycho killer, but a drug addicted fratboy;

━━━━━━━━━━━━ ⸰ .° ☆ ° ☆ °. ⸰ ━━━━━━━━━━━━

The term Kook Princess has been thrown around a lot in these parts, but no one seemed to be embodying it as perfectly as her.  She was the golden girl; the good girl. With a pair of rich, uptight parents, designer dog and curfew. Never seen at parties, but always invited and if she were to come, she was always quiet, subdued - soft drink in a red solo cup pressed tightly to her lips; her loud best friend never leaving her side. 

Rafe doesn’t know what it was that made him so attracted to her. With her honey blonde hair and soft sun kissed skin, she was light years away from his usual type, but then again, not quite. She was forbidden; out of reach, a conquest if you will and as a man who was never taught the word no, he too saw her as something he simply must get his hands on. 

He spent his days scheming how to get close. They had no mutual friends, she rarely left the house and when she did she was always with her stupid best friend or her parents and yes - Rafe was fearless, but not to the point where he would openly embarrass himself in front of two of the most influential people on the island.  

Days passed and he forgot about her soft smiles and the way those long legs looked in all those frilly short skirts. That is, until fate decided to butt in. 

It was hot - the hottest summer they have had in years and it was his sister’s birthday and he was so sick and tired of her and all her stupid friends but then he saw a glimpse of honey blonde hair and freckled skin and Rafe’s entire world stopped turning. She was smiling: perfect white teeth on an even more perfect face and there were so many girls in the world; so many girls in his backyard in skimpy swimsuits, but at that moment, Rafe only had eyes for her. 

He had no idea she and his sister were friends; he had no idea she even had friends aside from that loud, annoying one and yet, there she was: taking his breath away in a bright red bikini. 

The following events happened in a blur. He had been drinking since 10 am that morning -  perks of having his father and stepmonster away for the weekend - and he’d been laying on his bed, joint in hand when she walked in. 

“Sorry,” Her voice filled his room and only when his gaze met hers was when Rafe realized her eyes were hazel and not brown like he originally thought. “I can’t find the bathroom.” He put the joint between his lips; his limbs limp with relaxation and he wanted to stand up; was desperate to move towards her and feel the warmth emanating from her body, but he was too fucking high for all of it. 

“It’s okay.” She giggled just then and it was the best sound Rafe had heard in years. “I’ll find my way.” 

To say that he was embarrassed was an understatement. He was fucking humiliated and so out of his mind, he could barely think of anything but that. The moment replayed in his head like a broken record of sorts; her soft smile on constant repeat and just as he was about to force himself out of the scenario the door of his bedroom opened again. 

This time she had put on shorts: the tiniest Rafe had ever seen and her bright red bikini was blinding and hot and fuck - she was so hot and he was so gone. He’d barely made any conversation with the girl and he could already imagine their entire life together. What the fuck was wrong with him? 

“Here,” Sitting on the edge of his bed, she handed him a tall glass of water and watched as he drank. Her eyes were insane; the freckles on her face an array of constellations and she smelled sweet like cupcakes or strawberries and fuck fuck fuck he wanted to eat her. Trace his lips and tongue in the crook of her neck; taste her mouth, taste her skin, taste her …

“Feeling better?” He heard her say, her voice quiet and meek just like she had been all those years he’s been aware of her presence.

“Yeah.” 

Rafe doesn’t remember how they ended up kissing. How the weight of her body moved on his lap; how she let him run his needy hands all over her body and kiss all that exposed skin. His shirt was off and she was practically naked, in his bed - just like all those times he had fantasized about her, except this was so much better. 

His name escaped her lips softly, always in a form of a muffled moan and suddenly all he wanted to do is make her feel so fucking good, she had no other choice but to scream his name. And she did. She was so loud he had to cover her mouth with his hand and feel her lips spread into a grin against the calloused skin of his palm. 

He was bewitched. 

Charmed. 

Fucking obsessed with her and for some reason this perfect, golden girl who could do no wrong felt the same. 

That entire summer she had him off balance; sneaking inside her home; always through her bedroom window and straight into her bed where they made crazy senseless love. She was going away after the summer but Rafe didn’t care. He loved her. Sure, he never made it his mission to let her know this, but actions spoke louder than words and boy did he show her just how much she made him feel. 

He was going to tell her - Rafe constantly made promises to himself but then she would give him those eyes and every word in the English language would suddenly disappear from his brain.

On the night he finally decided to let her know just how fucking in love he was with her, there sat her father. Sternly, with a pin straight back, he told Rafe to leave and never return. To forget her because she had already forgotten him. What they had that summer meant nothing and will remain nothing because Rafe Cameron had no business being around his perfect daughter. 

“I love her.” Rafe said weakly, but it went unregistered. The man didn’t care about that. He could care less about the way his heart burst whenever he was around her; how he was willing to do anything, be anything… All her father wanted was for Rafe to leave his little girl alone.  

She was smart, ambitious -  with a bright future and big dreams and all he had was a bad temper and drug problem. 

It all ended that night. 

She was gone without a trace. So gone to the point where not even that best friend of hers knew where she’d disappeared to. 

Days, weeks, months passed and Rafe tried moving on; dated girls that looked like her and when that didn’t work he started dating girls that looked nothing like her. He drank and smoked and snorted. He traveled the world and caused havoc and went to rehab and relapsed. He made his father proud and then disappointed him again and again and again and before Rafe knew, three years had passed by and he was twenty two and bitter.  

His hair was thinning and he might’ve been a whole year sober, but every now and then he’d be itching for a drink and peruse the liquor aisle wondering which bottle of whiskey was worth enough to ruin his life with. It was this exact thought that had been haunting him one June evening when fate decided to interfere again. 

It was his sister’s twentieth birthday and they were having her celebratory dinner at the country club for some reason. She’d brought her useless excuse of a boyfriend and because that wasn’t awkward enough, his father decided to invite one of their new hires: a software engineer named Marjorie that clearly had the hots for Rafe, but he was far too desperate for a drink to pay any attention to her. 

And then she appeared. 

Her laughter - that rambunctious, delicious sound - was the first thing Rafe heard before actually seeing her. And when he finally did it was like all pieces of his long ago broken heart finally fell into place. Her hair was gold and her legs were long and sure, she might’ve ditched the frilly skirt for a pair of sensible white shorts, but she still looked just as perfect as he remembered. 

His gaze followed her as she sauntered into the room; her parents behind her and a man and a child and there was Rafe’s heart breaking all over again. She hadn’t seen him and it was probably for the best, but then Sarah turned slightly and suddenly, she was all his sister could see. 

Smiling, Sarah had called her entire fucking family over. The scowl on her father’s face was unmistakable and in a matter of seconds there they were: having awkward small talk and introducing significant others and she was married. 

The diamond on her engagement ring was blinding, just like her smile and when she finally looked at him, it was like that very first time in his room when she begged him to kiss her and he couldn’t dare say no. 

“Hello.” She nodded at him like they used to be coworkers, but her gaze lingered - drinking him in like the whiskey he was so desperate to taste again.

“And who is this young lady?” He heard Sarah coo at the small child hiding her face in the crook of her husband’s neck and the word made Rafe sick. 

“This is Phoebe. Phoebe… baby, don’t be shy. Come now, say hi.” The tone of her voice softened and silently he watched her pet her daughter’s head until the kid was ready to face the audience. And when she did, a pair of wide, curious blue eyes were looking straight at him. 

Fuck.

It was like looking in a mirror. 

A tiny, chubby cheeked mirror. 

Even the way their hair was thinning is the same. 

Rafe swallowed.

She was looking at him, those hazel eyes dancing on his face expectedly as if waiting to see whether the realization has hit him yet. All those years ago… she didn’t disappear because she had stopped loving him or because her parents found out… 

She was pregnant. 

He had gotten her pregnant.

He looked at her and then at his daughter…

His daughter. 

He has a fucking daughter. 

A tiny little girl in a baby blue dress and pigtails. 

Their eyes met again and it’s as clear as day - she knows he knows and Rafe watched her answer his silent question with a single, curt nod. 

He is a father.

[wonwoosmagnetic]

No Saints Here | kmg

Pairing : bodyguard!mingyu x rich!reader

Genre : angst, romance, mystery

synopsis :

Some secrets are meant to stay buried. Some love stories were never meant to begin.

Evangeline Perez thought she buried the past along with her sister. But when whispers of the truth resurface, she finds herself tangled in a web of secrets, power, and deception—one that could cost her everything.

Mingyu is a complication she never asked for. Cold, relentless, and far too protective, he’s determined to keep her from chasing ghosts. But Eva has never been one to obey orders, and the deeper she digs, the harder it becomes to ignore the tension pulling them together.

Because some things refuse to stay in the dark.

And some hearts are doomed from the start.

CHAPTER ONE

You had spent your entire life performing.

The daughter of Rafael Perez didn’t get the luxury of being anything else. Every movement, every carefully measured smile, every moment of silence in a room like this—it all meant something. Tonight was no different.

The ballroom glittered under chandeliers, the golden light reflecting off silk gowns and polished shoes. Laughter drifted through the air, mingling with the clinking of glasses, but beneath the practiced pleasantries lay a current of power. Deals were being made, alliances solidified, and Eva, as always, was a pawn on the board.

You lifted a champagne flute to your lips, though she barely took a sip. The bubbles fizzed against your skin, but you weren't drinking. You never drank at these events. Staying sharp was a necessity, not a choice.

--

You sat on your bed, eyes fixed on the blank canvas before you. The brushes, untouched and coated in dust, sat idle on the windowsill. You used to be able to lose yourself in the colors, the strokes, the world you created. But now? Now, it all felt hollow, a reminder of the life you were supposed to want, but couldn’t seem to care about.

Every day felt like you were moving through a fog, playing a part in a show you didn’t audition for. The more the days passed, the more you felt lost. A knock at your door pulled you from your thoughts, and before you could even respond, the door creaked open. Rafael Perez, your father, stepped inside with that cold, calculated look he always wore.

His presence was like an impenetrable wall, looming over your every move. “I see the canvas is still here.” he said, his voice devoid of emotion, but there was a clear disappointment in his words.

Your jaw tightened, but you didn’t respond immediately. He’d been saying the same thing for months, as though avoiding painting would somehow fix everything in your life. You stood, brushing your hands together, as though trying to dust off your frustration.

“I told you, I’m not interested in your... ‘vision’ for me, Dad,” you replied, trying to keep your tone neutral, but there was a sharpness to it you couldn’t quite hide. Your father didn’t react to the anger in your voice, like he didn’t even hear it.

He just stepped further into the room, his gaze never leaving yours, and approached the canvas with that same critical look. “You’re wasting your time, Evangeline. You’re wasting your potential. You have a responsibility to the family, to the company, to everything we’ve built.”

You scoffed, folding your arms across your chest. “What about what I want? Does that even matter?” His eyes flickered to you briefly, the hint of irritation flashing in them, but he quickly masked it. “What you want doesn’t matter. What matters is what needs to be done.” He paused for a beat before adding, “I’ve arranged for you to attend an event tonight. Mingyu will be there to make sure you’re... presentable.”

The mention of Mingyu made your stomach twist. You'd almost forgotten about him—almost. That damn bodyguard was always around, like a shadow, looming over your every move. He wasn’t just your father’s watchful eye; he was the constant reminder that you weren't in control of your own life.

Your eyes narrowed. “Mingyu,” you muttered, trying not to let the frustration creep into your voice. “What a surprise.” Rafael turned toward the door, as if the conversation was over, but not before adding, “You should be grateful he’s here. He’s only doing his job. I trust you’ll behave.” Your teeth ground together.

“I’m always behaving, Dad,” you spat, sarcasm dripping from the words. Your father didn’t flinch. “I’ll see you later.” He gave you one last look, this time more piercing, before he left, the door closing behind him with a soft thud. You stood still for a moment, staring at the door, your chest tightening with frustration.

You could hear his footsteps fading down the hallway, but the suffocating feeling remained, heavy in the air. You hated how his presence seemed to fill every corner of your life, like you were never allowed to breathe without someone watching.

And Mingyu? He was just the physical embodiment of everything your father represented. The rules. The control. The expectations. You let out a shaky breath and glanced over at the window, the bright sunlight streaming in, but it felt like the room was closing in on her.

Every day felt the same—tethered to your father’s demands, suffocated by the people he surrounded you with, and watched over by Mingyu.

--

You tossed your phone onto the couch, frustration building in your chest. Another message from your dad about the upcoming event—the usual “you need to look perfect” reminder. You sighed deeply, your fingers dragging through your hair as you sat down beside Caro, who was sitting cross-legged on the floor flipping through a fashion magazine.

The two of you had spent the entire afternoon together, but your mind was miles away. “I hate these events,” you muttered, glancing down at your phone. “Everything’s always so perfect and expected. I feel like I can’t breathe.”

Caro stayed silent, a soft smile playing on her lips as she nodded. She was used to your rants, always ready to listen even though Caro’s own thoughts were a little more complicated when it came to these events. She didn’t have to attend them. She was always on the outside looking in.

You, completely oblivious to the weight of Caro’s thoughts, looked up, her eyes bright with determination. “I need your help. I have to look perfect tonight.” Caro blinked, not sure what to expect. “What do you mean?” Her voice was soft, but she couldn’t quite hide the curiosity.

You tossed her phone aside again and turned to Caro, her eyes lighting up. “I need a dress. Not just any dress—something that'll make a statement, you know? Something that says, ‘I’m here, and I’m not going to play by anyone’s rules’.” Caro’s heart skipped, the awkwardness creeping in as soon as she realized what this was about. She shifted uncomfortably, glancing at the floor.

She knew the drill—Your extravagant events, the expectations, the people. It wasn’t her world. She didn’t belong there. “I—I don’t know if I’m the right person to help with that,” Caro muttered, her voice faltering slightly.

She fiddled with the corner of the magazine, a nervous tick she always had when she was uncomfortable. You, however, didn’t seem to notice. She was already on a roll, thinking about all the details. “But you know fashion better than anyone, Caro. Please, just help me pick something out. I trust you. You always know how to make me look amazing.” Caro didn’t answer immediately.

She just nodded, forcing a small smile, even though the thought of stepping into that world made her feel out of place. She was just the friend—the one who didn't belong to the circle of high society, the one who had to watch it all from the sidelines.

Your excitement seemed to fill the room, making Caro’s discomfort that much more pronounced. You weren't just talking about a dress; you were talking about fitting in with your father’s world, about being the perfect image for all the people who would be watching. And Caro wasn’t even invited to those events.

When you suddenly brightened, your smile widening, Caro’s stomach twisted. “Oh! And you can come as my plus one. I mean, you’ve got nothing to do tonight, right?” Caro’s throat tightened. She stayed silent for a long moment, biting her lip as the awkwardness settled over her like a heavy blanket.

You were expecting her to say yes, but all Caro could think about was how out of place she’d feel surrounded by people who had everything she didn’t.  She forced herself to nod, her voice barely above a whisper. “I... yeah, I guess I can come. If you want me to.”

Your face lit up at her agreement. “Of course, I do! You’re my best friend. You’re going to help me pick out the perfect dress, and then we’ll go together. It’ll be so much fun.” Caro smiled weakly, but it didn’t reach her eyes.

She didn’t want to be the one to burst your bubble, but it was hard not to feel like a pawn in this whole thing. You had no idea how different their worlds were. No idea how uncomfortable it made Caro to be asked to be her “sidekick” in a world that would never accept her.

Instead of speaking up, Caro just nodded again, still feeling out of place. “Sounds fun,” she said quietly, her voice almost sounding distant. You, completely oblivious, bounced up from the couch, heading toward the door.

“Let’s go! We’ve got to find that dress, and then I’ll text Mingyu and tell him I’m all ready to go.” And as you dragged her out the door, Caro couldn’t shake the feeling that this night was going to be another reminder of just how different they truly were.

--

The venue was dazzling—golden chandeliers casting a warm glow over the sea of elegantly dressed guests. Laughter and the soft clinking of glasses filled the space, the air thick with the scent of expensive perfume and champagne.

Everywhere Caro looked, people moved effortlessly, slipping in and out of conversations like they belonged to some secret world she could never quite step into.

You, on the other hand, fit right in. The moment they arrived, you were swept up in a flurry of greetings—soft cheek kisses, perfectly rehearsed compliments, and warm, effortless smiles exchanged between people who had known each other since childhood.

You shined in the dress Caro helped you pick, a sleek midnight blue gown that hugged your form just right. Confidence radiated off you as she laughed, gesturing animatedly while talking to a group of perfectly put-together people.

Caro, however, stood off to the side, her fingers wrapped tightly around the stem of her untouched champagne glass. She shifted on her heels, her dress—borrowed from your closet—feeling a little too tight, a little too foreign.

The conversation around her moved like a fast-flowing river, and she was just a rock stuck on the bank, watching it all pass her by. You had promised they’d stick together, but within minutes, she was off mingling, seamlessly blending into the crowd.

Caro swallowed, her gaze flickering over the room. There was no one here she knew, no one who would even think to talk to her. And maybe that was the point—she wasn’t supposed to be here. She was just the friend. The outsider.

Caro swallowed, her gaze flickering over the room. There was no one here she knew, no one who would even think to talk to her. And maybe that was the point—she wasn’t supposed to be here. She was just the friend. The outsider.

"You know you have to say no to her someday, right?" The deep, measured voice made her flinch. She turned to find Seungcheol Perez- your brother, standing beside her, a crystal glass of whiskey in one hand.

His dark brown eyes, always sharp and unreadable, carried a hint of amusement as he glanced toward Eva, who was across the room, laughing with a group of perfectly polished socialites. Caro sighed. "Oh, is this where you deliver another one of your grand lectures?" He smirked, tilting his glass slightly.

"Not a lecture. Just an observation." He took a slow sip. "She drags you into this world like you belong here. But we both know you don’t." Caro scoffed, arms crossing over her chest. "Wow. Thanks for the vote of confidence." He chuckled lightly.

"I’m just saying, you let her pull you around like a shadow." There was teasing in his voice, but something else, too. Something heavier. "She’s my best friend," Caro muttered, glancing at you again. Seungcheol nodded. "I know."

His voice softened, just slightly. Then, after a pause, "But you don’t always have to say yes just because she asks." Caro hesitated, shifting on her feet. "Why do you even care?" He tilted his head slightly, considering her. "Maybe I don’t. Maybe I just enjoy watching you squirm." Caro huffed out a quiet laugh despite herself.

"You are the absolute worst."

"Mm." He smirked again. "And yet, here you are, still talking to me." She rolled her eyes, but the warmth between them was unmistakable. Seungcheol may have been blunt, but he wasn’t cruel. And despite everything, she knew he was right—you never saw how hard it was for her to be in this world. But Seungcheol did.

And for the first time that night, standing beside him, Caro didn’t feel so alone. “Come here to steal my best friend as well?” Your voice cut through the air, her words dripping with barely-contained irritation as she approached them. There was no warmth in her tone, only an edge of frustration. Her eyes narrowed as they settled on Seungcheol.

He didn’t react, his expression calm as always, though there was an underlying tension that was hard to ignore. He took a casual sip from his drink, his gaze steady on you as he replied, "I’m not stealing anyone, Evangeline. Just having a conversation." Your lips tightened into a thin line. You didn’t miss a beat.

"You should know better than to waste your time," you said coldly, your voice flat, like she was talking to a subordinate. “If you’re not here to work, I don’t know what you’re doing.” There was no affection in your words—just the distant, sharp edge of someone who had long ago put up walls. Seungcheol raised an eyebrow, unfazed. “I’m not here to waste anyone’s time,” he replied, his tone smooth, his posture professional.

Your gaze shifted to Caro for a split second, “you really think I need you to babysit her too?” Seungcheol glanced briefly at Caro, whose awkwardness was palpable, before responding in a level voice. "I’m not babysitting her, Evangeline. We’re just talking." You took a step closer, your heels clicking against the floor in a purposeful way. “It’s not your job to talk to her,” you said with a brittle smile, now aiming your words directly at him.

“So why don’t you go find something else to do?” Caro felt herself shrink a little, the tension in the air thickening with every word. She wasn’t sure what had caused the rift between them, but it was clear that whatever it was, it was deep—and it wasn’t about her. Seungcheol didn't flinch.

He met her sharp gaze with the same unflinching calm. "You really don’t need to control everything, Evangeline." Your eyes flashed for a moment, your jaw clenching as your fingers curled slightly around your drink. “And you don’t need to lecture me," you snapped back, your voice low but cutting.

“You’re not in charge here. Stay out of it.” There was a moment of silence before Seungcheol sighed, as if he was tired of this back-and-forth, but he didn't show it. "Fine," he said simply, his voice calm as always. "Enjoy your night." He says raising the glass in Caro's direction as he leaves. Caro watched as Seungcheol disappeared into the crowd, and for a moment, she felt an ache in her chest.

But before she could linger on it, your voice broke through. "I don’t know why he has to make such a scene everywhere he goes." Caro didn’t even look up at you. Instead, she took a slow sip from her drink, trying to steady the chaos in her mind.

"It’s not a scene," she replied quietly. Caro let out a soft breath, glancing over at you, who was clearly still fuming. She could feel the weight of the conversation, but at this point, she wasn’t going to let it ruin her night. Not when you had gone out of her way to make sure they were having fun tonight.

“We don’t like him, Caro. He’s is an asshole,” You said again, her voice steady, but there was a sharpness in it that made it clear you weren't backing down. Caro nodded, her eyes scanning the crowd for a moment, avoiding the topic. She wasn’t sure what else to say. “Yeah, of course. I was just—” “There is no ‘just,’ Caro. He is a fuck up, and I won’t let him ruin our night,” You cut in, more serious now, your expression set. Caro turned back to you, her voice a little quieter as she sighed. “Yeah, yeah obviously.”

There wasn’t much else she could add. She knew you were just looking out for her, but sometimes it felt like everyone had an opinion on Seungcheol. He was complicated, yes—hard to deal with, yes—but he was her friend, and that made things harder. She didn’t want to argue with you about it. Not now. Not tonight.

Caro let the music wash over her, the bass thudding beneath her feet as she tried to shake off the lingering tension. You, on the other hand, had already moved on, flagging down a server to order another round. “You need to stop letting him get under your skin,” Caro said, forcing a smile as she leaned against the bar beside her best friend. You scoffed, picking up your drink.

“I don’t. He’s just always in the way.” You tossed back a sip, your nails drumming against the glass. “It’s pathetic, honestly. He acts like he’s some kind of protector.” Caro hesitated, glancing down at her own drink. “Maybe he’s just—” “Don’t,” You cut in, her voice firm. “You don’t owe him the benefit of the doubt, Caro. Not him.”

Caro swallowed back her words. There was something unshakable in your voice, something that made arguing feel pointless. Maybe you were right. Maybe Seungcheol wasn’t worth defending. But if that were true, why did Caro feel the way she did? Before she could think too much about it, a familiar voice interrupted her thoughts.

“Ladies.” Caro turned, blinking as she took in the man who had appeared beside them. Sleek suit, charming smirk, an air of confidence that was just a little too polished. Elias Park. Your posture relaxed instantly, a slow smile curling at your lips. “Elias,” you greeted, tilting your head in interest.

“Didn’t think I’d see you here.” “I could say the same,” he replied smoothly, his dark eyes flicking over to Caro for a second before returning to you. “But then again, you do have a habit of making any place worth being at.” You let out a quiet laugh, clearly enjoying the attention. Caro, however, just gave a small, polite smile before turning back to her drink.

Elias leaned a little closer, lowering his voice. “Actually, I wanted to talk to you.” You raised a brow, intrigued. “Oh?” “Yeah.” His eyes gleamed under the dim lighting. “There’s something I think you’d be very interested in.” Caro barely heard the rest of the conversation.

Her mind was elsewhere, her thoughts drifting back to Seungcheol. Something about the way he left—unbothered on the surface, but carrying something heavier underneath—stuck with her. And she couldn’t shake the feeling that this wasn’t over.

[vivwritescrappythings]

meum cor

marcus acacius x fem!reader

Your father had raised you for one purpose: to be a very rich man's wife someday. As it turns out, that man is Marcus Acacius, the renowned general himself.

a/n: Thank you for this lovely request! Instead of a princess I made reader the daughter of a rich merchant in Rome, but I hope you like it! I am on the fence about a part 2 right now.

tw: fem reader, afab reader, reader is shorter than Marcus, reader has long hair, social norms of ancient rome, vague description of a chariot crash, your imaginary dad is a misogynist, not proofread, Marcus may be poorly written.

word count: 5.1k

masterlist

--

Being born a woman in Rome was being born shackled. Your life depended on being a mother, a wife. The servitude of others would be your shining opus, the symbol of a life well-lived. It was hard to imagine, your mother passed away when you were just a babe. 

In the privacy of your mind, you imagined growing up to become a soldier or a scholar like your brothers. The desire for independence itched beneath your skin. But that would not be your fate. You were committed to your loom and learning to run a household and being a good wife someday. 

After years agonizing over who to marry you off to, your father had finally found a man suitable enough: General Marcus Acacius. 

His decision was twofold: help your brothers get better positions in the Roman army and increase his influence by tying you to one of the most powerful generals in the empire. 

It was no matter that he was nearly twenty years your senior–your father assured you it was a common match. There was nothing for you to worry about, it would be a great honor for your family for you to marry General Acacius. No use in arguing, or pouting, or fighting against it.

Your father’s word was law.

You ruminated over the mysterious General Acacius for weeks. All you could consider was what your future husband was like, agonizing about any scrap of information you could learn about him. He had spent most of the past few years fighting in battles: the conquest of Armenia, of Parthia, of Germania. A man obsessed with legacy. You could only imagine the amount of blood on his hands–how many people had he killed to aid the sprawling Roman Empire? 

At his age he had never been married before. You had expected to be his second wife, men his age looking to marry were widowers more often than not. Perhaps he had been too dedicated to his military career to consider marriage… or you had heard stories of men who preferred the company of other men. 

If anything, that could make him an amicable husband. Simply marrying you for your dowry and allegiance to a merchant, but otherwise left you to your own devices?

You could live a life that way.

The walk to Palatine Hill did not take you and your father long, the fall weather just starting to cool after a long summer. In truth, you had never even spoken to anyone that lived on Palatine Hill, let alone visited a domus there. Each one was more elegant than the last, elegant homes that exuded affluence with beautiful entryways and manicured grounds. 

The amount your father was offering for your dowry must have been staggering. 

Being a merchant had its benefits. You were sure your father offered access to the best imports and potential to take over a few ships if he wished to step down from his post as general. 

Marcus’s domus was mixed in with the rest, your father nodding to the guards and stating his business. They let you pass without issue. Marcus had invited you and your father to visit his home and they would attend the chariot race that afternoon. It was the final step to securing his agreement to your marriage, ensuring that he deemed you suitable enough to take as his wife.

Your father had been frantically preparing you, training you in proper topics of discussion and how to answer any questions Marcus had. The strategy simply turned into allowing your father to answer any and all questions and smiling demurely in the background. Better seen, not heard.

The autumnal sun slanted into the atrium, shining off the impluvium and illuminating the space. It was sparsely decorated: reception benches positioned strategically around the space, a few tapestries hung on the walls. The most intriguing part of the room was the mosaic in the impluvium, an intricate scene of a gold octopus and colorful fish embedded in the tile. You stared at it for a long time while a servant ran to fetch Marcus from deeper within the household.

Before you realized, he stood before you.

You were surprised to see him dressed so simply—he did not look like the decorated general you had expected. The only indication of his status was the deep burgundy cape clasped over his chest, the clasp and embroidery shining gold. He was broad and tall, his head full of dark curls that were starting to go gray at the temples. His beard was going gray at the jowls. But his gaze was focused on you and your father, his deep umber eyes taking you in. There were a few scars on the tanned skin you could see, the permanent furrows of a scowl above his curved nose.

But he was handsome. 

The thought caught you so off-guard that you nearly tripped on air, heeding your father’s beckoning hand to stand near him. You did not realize that you could find a man twice your age to be handsome, or even pleasing to the eye.

“Justus Acacius,” your father began, his voice booming through the atrium as he put on a show of joviality that he did not feel, “I am pleased to see you once more, and for you to finally meet my daughter.”

Your father gestured to you with a sweeping hand. You inclined your head politely, eyes downcast. “I am honored, Justus Acacius,” you murmured, keeping your gaze on the polished stone. The name felt unfamiliar on your tongue: it was the first time you spoke it aloud.

The weight of his appraising stare was palpable, you did all you could to stay still beneath it. The last thing you wanted was for Marcus to think you weak-willed. You forced yourself to stay calm, your breaths slow and even.

Then came approval in the form of a slight nod–nothing more than a partial lift of his chin. You glanced up, finding his expression unreadable. “Welcome to my domus, I trust the way here was not too taxing,” he said, his voice a smooth baritone. You understood how soldiers could fall into line at his shout—it commanded attention.

Marcus turned to your father, clasping his shoulder in a firm grip that spoke of their familiarity. “Your daughter is a beautiful maiden, Tiberius. You did not over exaggerate.” You glanced at your father, eyebrows ticking up in question. You did not realize that he had bragged about your appearance–in your list of accomplishments he tended to leave it off. 

“Come, let us retire to the triclinium. I have refreshments waiting.”

You followed dutifully, taking in the extravagance of his home. The build of it spoke of opulence, prim white stone forming the walls and meticulously carved columns. For all its grandeur it lacked the details, there were a few busts placed in alcoves and the odd tapestry on the wall. They looked old, the fibers slightly frayed–passed down from mother to son, most likely.

“It requires a feminine touch,” Marcus said, noticing how you were looking around. “Something I am certain my future wife will be able to supplement.”

Your father bristled at the way his statement was open-ended, no guarantee in sight that you would be that future wife in question. It seemed that your supposed beauty was not enough to secure a betrothal.

The triclinium was furnished with three low couches around a dark table, your father claiming the couch in the center and forcing you and Marcus to sit apart from one another. The table was littered with fruits, cured meats, and pastries, but you did not have the stomach for any of it. You took a fig to be polite, taking miniscule bites of it.

Your father and Marcus ate seemingly without concern, grazing as they spoke idly of politics and distant lands the Emperors wished to conquer. It all sounded frivolous to you, the impending doom of your marriage looming over your head like an executioner’s axe. You were so preoccupied in your thoughts that you did not realize Marcus had spoken to you until your father had cleared his throat.

“Tell me,” Marcus said, turning to face you as he handed your father a goblet of wine before pouring one for himself, “what are your interests? Your skills? I would like to know more about the woman I am to wed.”

He leaned against the cushions, the embodiment of relaxation as he drank. His arms crossed over his broad chest, the muscle moving beneath his tanned skin like snakes. 

You took a breath, opening your mouth to answer before your father interrupted you.

“She is excellent with a loom,” your father proudly offered, the metal cup hanging from his fingers as he leaned forward to rest his elbows on his knees. “She took over the duties of my late wife when she was just a girl, and, dare I say, the fabrics she weaves are even more fine than her mother’s.”

Your father did not even allow Marcus time to respond, launching into his next point with gusto. “She also is proficient with the flute and knows how to dance. My wife and I had wanted her to become a Vestal, but the goddess did not call upon her.”

“I assure you, Justus Acacius, she is well prepared to run a household in your absence,” he promised, wetting his lips with the wine to hide the anxious set of your mouth.

Marcus listened intently to your father’s praise of your skills, one eyebrow slightly arched. He took a sip of his own wine, the ruby liquid leaving a faint stain on his full lower lip. 

“Raised modestly as well,” Marcus remarked, glancing at you with a hint of a smirk. The touch of humor surprised you, your cheeks warming as you hid your smile. You took a larger bite of the fig so you did not have to school your expression, the ripe fruit sweet on your tongue.

He set his metal cup down on the wooden table with a soft clink. There was a moment of pensive silence before Marcus cleared his throat, fixing your father beneath his penetrating stare. “I am pleased to hear of your daughter’s talents. They will serve her well as a Roman matron.” He paused, the weight of his words sinking in. “However, I would like to hear it from her. Tell me, how would you intend to manage a household in your husband’s absence?”

His cool gaze drifted back to you, dark eyes glinting with curiosity and a hint of a challenge. The pregnant silence held the expectation of your response.

It was unusual. Most men were comfortable to allow your father to speak for you, preferring women seen rather than heard. It was the first time a man had asked you for your own words. You found the image of him that you created in your mind rewriting itself. 

“As for running a household–I am literate,” that simple fact already put you a step ahead of many women you knew, “my father went through the additional effort of hiring tutors to teach me grammar and how to use an abacus. Now that I am of age I have handled my father’s affairs a few times when he left on trading expeditions–both of my brothers are serving in the army so it fell upon me to manage the responsibilities.”

You paused for a moment, taking a breath as you looked up at Marcus. He was watching intently, holding a terrifyingly neutral expression. “As for running your household, I would study your previous ledgers and discuss your strategy of managing your assets before you were to leave.”

The silence of the room was deafening–you could hardly stand it. “If anything, I rather enjoy calculations with the abacus,” you said, babbling to fill the dead air. You could feel your father’s glare without needing to look at it. “At times I have done them simply to pass the time, seeing how much I can challenge myself.”

Marcus nodded slowly, dark eyes glinting with amusement as the corner of his lip threatened to turn up. He downed the rest of his cup of wine, clasping his hands together in front of him for a moment as his gaze dragged over your form.

“I find your honesty refreshing. It is clear you are well-equipped to be a devoted wife and manage a household of this size,” he said as he stood, towering over you and your father. You were holding your breath, waiting for the verdict as though you would receive your death sentence. “I believe this match will be beneficial for all of us.”

And you could breathe once more. 

You looked up at Marcus, trying to reconcile that the man would be your husband. It had not felt real until he acknowledged the match. Part of you had assumed that he would change his mind upon meeting you, opting to marry some Senator’s daughter instead of the daughter of a merchant.

But he would have you as his bride. His wife. 

Marcus turned to your father, broad shoulders squared. “Tiberius, have you ever sat trackside at the chariot races? I was planning for us to use my seats,” he said, taking a step back to leave the room. You knew your father would be pleased by his offer, sitting with Senators and dignitaries had always been his aspiration.

The sun was shining in through the arches leading to the courtyard, high in the clear sky. The races would surely start soon.

Your father accepted readily, the two of you standing quickly. He arranged for your cousin to meet you at Circus Maximus to escort you home–it was inappropriate for a woman of your social class to walk by herself through the streets of Rome. 

“Tell me, my lady, would you care to join us? I have found that a touch of excitement and spectacle can be invigorating for the soul,” Marcus said, his words an open invitation.

You could not help but glance at your father for his approval–he had always considered the races too aggressive for the fairer sex. They had always intrigued you, the sheer size of Circus Maximus always caught your gaze when you were near. Sometimes you could hear the crowds cheering.

After a moment of deliberation your father nodded, albeit less enthusiastically than he could have. “It will be good for the two of you to spend time together in public, it will serve to announce the union prior to the ceremony.”

“Excellent,” Marcus murmured, holding his hand out palm up for you to take. There were callouses on his palm and fingers that spoke of training long hours with a sword and shield. The spread between his fingers was wide, your hand disappearing in his hold as he pulled you up to your feet. “Let us be off.”

–

Circus Maximus was a buzz as you took your seats, your breath stolen by the enormity of the track and the stadium surrounding it. 

You had never seen so many people in one place, the stands roaring. Marcus’s seats were in the first row. Senators filled in the space around you, your gaze drawn to the broad purple stripes on their tunics. If you had known you would be meeting Senators you would have dressed differently. 

It had already taken you far too long to weave the palla you were wearing over your crisp ivory tunic–a band of yellow following the hemline of the rich crimson fabric. Your father had insisted you wear the jewelry your mother had passed down to you, gold bracelets adorning both wrists and a matching choker clasped at your throat. But you still felt underdressed–you would have braided your hair more intricately or added a band over your bicep. 

“My lady, are you alright?” Marcus asked, pulling you from your thoughts as you blinked at him for a moment. You could feel your cheeks warming, sheepish that you were caught in your reverie.

“Yes, General Acacius,” you breathed, a self-conscious smile twisting the corners of your lips. You did not want him to worry about your comfort. “I was simply gathering my surroundings–this is my first time inside Circus Maximus.I hope you do not take offense to my naivety.”

His surprise was palpable, dark eyebrows lifting toward his hairline and eyes rounding. Then his expression melted into a smirk, his head bending toward yours. “Well, I will find great enjoyment explaining the sport to you if you are willing to listen,” he said, just loud enough for you to hear him.

He was close enough that it felt like a secret between the two of you, a chill running up your spine despite the warm autumnal sun. You found yourself enjoying it.

“Of course, if it is not too much trouble.” Your entire life was dedicated to taking up as little space as possible, your father’s devastation over having a daughter known to you as soon as you were old enough to understand what his rebukes meant.

Marcus’s brow furrowed, his gaze tracking to where your father was speaking with some Senator before coming back to you. “My lady,” he murmured, voice a tick lower as his fingers brushed a loose piece of hair from your face, “you will soon be my wife. I intend to bring you to these events, and they will be more enjoyable if you understand the rules.” His hand cupped the side of your neck, warm against your skin.

You tried not to shy away from his touch, his skin rough against yours. A man had never touched you so intimately before. The frantic beat of your heart filled your ears for a moment, you were sure he could feel the hammer of your pulse against his hand.  

“Alright, explain it to me,” you murmured, biting the inside of your cheek for a moment as you folded your hands in your lap. You twisted the fabric of your palla over your fingers, not sure if he expected you to return the touch or simply accept it. Perhaps you were thinking about it too hard–too worried about misstepping and causing Marcus to change his mind.

But he seemed pleased, releasing you to turn and face the track fully. “Those gates down there are where the chariots start,” you followed the sweep of his arm with your eyes, “they run around the center barrier, the spina, to reach seven laps around the track first.”

You listened intently, bracing one hand on the carved stone rail as you leaned forward. The spina surprised you with its intricacy, obelisks and statues decorating the center of it. There were water features mixed in with the artwork, gilded columns on each end of the barrier indicating turning points.

“Are there teams?” you asked, glancing at Marcus before looking at the track again. 

He nodded, eyes seemingly lighting up at your questions. “Yes, today the Red and White teams will race,” he said, resting his elbows on his knees as his gaze drifted to your palla. “You are dressed aptly, for I support the Reds.”

“It must have been the goddess Fortuna guiding me this morning,” you said with a grin, almost looking smug. 

Your father pulled Marcus’s attention from you, asking questions about which team he supported and if he had placed any wagers. It was hard to hear his reply, their voices getting lost in the din of the stadium. 

Solitude amongst a crowd was something you were taught to be used to, your mind occupying itself with silly games. You counted the number of obelisks in the spina, the number of stadium sections you could see, the number of people in the lowest section across from you. 

The thoughts of your upcoming wedding ceremony drifted into your mind–would your aunt take the place of your mother? Would she dress you the morning of the ceremony? Tie the Herculean knot at your waist in wool? You could hardly imagine Marcus taking you from her arms during the wedding procession–you and your aunt were little more than strangers. But she was the only woman in your family, the responsibility would fall to her. 

“My lady?” You felt a nudge to your side. Marcus and your father were looking at you, you noticed a vendor standing in the aisle. 

“Yes? My apologies, I was lost in thought,” you said amiably, crossing your legs at the knee.

Marcus cleared his throat. “Would you like something to eat?” he asked, so conscientious of you that it was almost frightening. You were thankful it was loud enough that the sound of your stomach growling was audible. 

Despite your hunger you shook your head, waving off his concern with a polite smile. “No, I am alright.” you said softly. You could see your father’s satisfied expression and nod over Marcus’s shoulder. Refusing was the right answer. “Thank you, General Acacius.”

“Nonsense, you hardly touched the food before we left,” Marcus said, turning to the vendor and shouting a few orders. He had a keen eye… you were not used to scrutiny. He took two clay pots from the vendor, handing you one of marinated green olives so he could pay the vendor. “Eat, and do not be afraid to ask for anything you see that entices you.”

“You are far too generous, Justus,” your father said, squinting in the sunlight as he looked at you. His disappointment was clear. But Marcus did not seem to notice or mind, simply placing both bowls into your hands. The other bowl had toasted hazelnuts and walnuts, the clay pot pleasantly warm in your hands. You placed both bowls on the carved stone step between yourself and Marcus, picking from them idly.  

It was enough to satiate your stomach, staving off the dregs of your hunger until you made it home.

Then your gaze was drawn by a magistrate walking onto the track, a white flag held aloft and shining in the sun. Marcus caught the movement out of the corner of his eye, sitting up straighter. “Once he drops the flag, the race will begin,” he said to you with a glance to make sure you were paying attention.

It was quick. As soon as the flag dropped the gates opened, each chariot being pulled by four horses. The thunder of their hooves almost rivaled the cheers of the crowd as all twelve chariots flew down the track.

You watched with rapt attention, studying the way the charioteers had the reigns of the horses tied around their waists. The first two laps seemed to only be used for gaining speed, the chariots staying in their designated lanes before chaos broke loose.

The gasp that pulled from your throat when you watched a charioteer whip another one that got too close caught Marcus’s attention, making him bark out a deep laugh. You had lurched to your feet with the rest of the crowd, the adrenaline getting to you. “They will try to make one another crash as they vie for a position closest to the spina,” he said to you, a hand gently placed on the small of your back. The press of his palm on your spine brought you a step closer to him.

You watched with wide eyes, the red and white robed charioteers careening around the track without abandon. The horses kicked up clods of dirt with every hoofbeat, spraying anyone that dared be behind them. You understood why they had been spraying so much water over the track–an attempt to keep down the dust. 

The first crash was brutal, two sets of horses tangling with one another. One charioteer cut himself free of the reins with a curved knife, jumping from the chariot and into the greenery that adorned the spina. The other one was not so lucky, the sound of wood splintering and cracking reaching your ears as you clapped a hand over your mouth. The other racers had to dodge the mess, narrow misses of the pileup making you wince.

“It is alright, the charioteers are alright, my lady,” Marcus said, his nose brushing against your hair as he spoke into your ear. You looked up, seeing the other man pull himself from the wreckage to safety. It helped you breathe easier, a nod coming from you.

There was one more crash during the race, a chariot clipped one of the columns and spun out of control. Marcus had pulled you to his side as the laps went on, you could feel his excitement through the way his fist clenched in the loose, draping fabric of your palla. You pressed your fingertips to your lips, brow furrowed as you watched the final stretch. 

The teams were neck and neck, the entire stadium tense until the Reds pulled forward at the last moment. You let out a sigh of relief, your eyes slipping closed for a beat. Then you could hear Marcus laugh, loud and raucous. “Why I believe you must be a priestess of Fortuna herself, my lady, for the Reds have not come out victorious in the past fifteen races,” he said to you, crushing you to his side in a way that made you chuckle. 

You had not expected ease at his side, and certainly not praise. Warmth covered your cheeks and neck as a genuine smile found its way to your face, your gaze casting up through your lashes to meet his. He released you after a moment, clapping your father on the back as they animatedly discussed the race.

There were a few more races that day, each one as chaotic as the last–but they were all Red wins.

–

Marcus had insisted on escorting you and your father back to your father’s domus as the sun began to set on the horizon. Your father’s property was grand in comparison to that of your neighbors, but with respect to Marcus’s estate it was a simple home. 

Your favorite part were the orange and lemon trees growing on the property, filling the air with the scent of citrus as the sky turned pink. Marcus had accompanied you up to the atrium, a soft smile on his face as he looked down at you. Your father had sent a servant to fetch wine, anxious to continue impressing Marcus.

“I must bring you with me to all the chariot races, my lady,” Marcus said, his dark eyes raking from your head to your toes. “It seems that your presence bodes well for my luck.”

You shook your head, flattered as you covered your smile with your fingertips. “I believe you are too kind to me, General Acacius,” you murmured, unable to hide your grin from your voice. 

You felt giddy, your father and Marcus had spent the entire journey to your father’s domus discussing dates for the ceremony. It was set for three weeks from that day, it would give you just enough time to alter your mother’s wedding gown to your tastes and to set a menu for the feast.

“Tiberius,” Marcus started, deep voice booming throughout the atrium, “would it be alright if I had a moment of privacy with your daughter? I would like to give her a gift so she does not forget me within the next three weeks.”

He hesitated for a moment before obliging, saying he would be just down the hall if you needed anything. You knew he would be standing just beyond the door.

“You have pleasantly surprised me,” he said, a hand running down the bare skin of your left arm until he held your wrist. Goosebumps lifted on your flesh, a shiver running down your spine as your breath caught in your throat. “I had expected this to be a marriage of necessity, but it seems to me that it has the potential to be much more.”

He pulled something from the folds of his tunic, the gold catching the light of the setting sun as he brought your left hand toward him. You realized that it was a ring–an engagement ring. 

“I wanted to see before I gave this to you, just to be sure,” he murmured, his dark eyes focused on your hand as he threaded the ring onto the third finger on your left hand. “Ah, perfect fit. I should not have expected any less from my priestess of Fortuna.” 

You rolled your eyes, still smiling as you looked down at the ring. It was not as heavy as you had expected, sitting snug on your finger. It was believed that a vein connected your heart to the ring finger–but for some reason you had never imagined a ring occupying that space. It was simple, a design of two hands clasping on the center of the band. But the gold alone must have cost far too much.

“It is beautiful,” you breathed, a bit mystified.

Marcus’s hand clasped your chin, tilting your head up toward his. “It suits you,” he mumbled, dark eyes partially-lidded as he looked over your face.

His hand shifted, clasping the back of your neck. You were stretched onto your toes, leaning toward him with such fervor that you would fall forward if he stepped away. The air between you was warm, smelling of wine and roasted hazelnuts.

The first brush of his lips against yours was tentative, so cautious. It seemed like he was just testing, treating you like glass. 

You should have pulled away, bashful and flustered and told him that you would have time to continue on your wedding day. That three weeks was not a long time to wait–a mere twenty four days away. 

But you did not, hesitantly placing a hand upon his chest for stability as you stretched further into the kiss. Marcus let out a soft groan, the kiss deepening as his mouth slanted against yours. His beard and mustache tickled your delicate skin, but you found yourself enjoying the sensation. The broad stretch of his hands cradled your jaw, guiding you through the clumsiness of naivety into the kiss.

Your hand fisted in his tunic, pulling him toward you with some urgency. He let out a muffled grunt, a hand finding the curve of your hip. 

He then pulled away, his cheeks flushed and his lips parted as he took in air. You could feel his chest move beneath your hand with each heavy breath. A smile curved his lips, genuine in a way you already found yourself cherishing.

“I will see you soon,” he murmured, pressing another chaste kiss to your lips before untangling himself from you. “But I believe if I keep you any longer, your father will be suspicious.”

You let go of his tunic, nodding as you let go of him. He cupped your cheek in his hand, thumb running over your cheekbone before he bid you farewell, stamping another kiss upon your brow before leaving your father’s domus altogether.

The girlish giggle came from you before you could stop it, your hand covering your mouth as you looked down at the ring on your finger. 

Bless the goddess Fortuna for your fate that day.

[androdetective]

I wish people talked about the recruiters backstory more. His story is one of exploitation and class tensions. He came from poverty and was a young guy who became a pink guard. Who eventually caught Oh Il-nam's interest, which is what got him promoted from soldier to manager to recruiter. He was only able to become successful because a rich guy happened to notice him. That was all entirely based on luck. We know he's rich now from that recruiter morning routine video that was released. He's one of the very rare people who actually went from poverty to riches.

When he was at his lowest when young, he was swept up by bad people who gave him the worst mentalities. But that's what caused him to be able to live a comfortable life. The way he talks, he talks exactly the way Oh Il-nam (and even the front man) talk about the games. How he's just a messenger who delivers messages, how he told himself during his guard years that the poor people are trash with no purpose. It's the simplification of horrible things. The mindset of the games/system got a hold of him. His poverty roots are irrelevant to him. He probably thinks he was different and a hard worker, which is why he made it unlike the other trash.

When he gives that "you're just another piece of trash who made it out of the garbage" speech to Gi-hun and how he only made it because of luck, that entirely applies to him. He had a millionaire VIP to help him, compared to the other hundreds of regular guards. It's unbelievable luck to have a millionaire to help you up the ranks/class. He is a self-hating class traitor. He's those types of people who went from poverty to upper class. And because they managed that, they swear that the system works and will be horribly classist to people below them. They think that lower class people are garbage and need to work harder just like they did. Ignoring the fact that they only managed to because of luck.

We know that outside of his work, he messes with poor people through games/social experiments. When he gave the homeless people the choices between bread and a lottery ticket, everyone but one chose the tickets. Which is already cruel, considering it takes extreme luck to win. It's even worse than a 1/456 chance. When he's finished, he dumps the bread and stomps on them. He then blames all the homeless people for wasting the bread because they chose unlucky tickets. This isn't even a part of his job, but he does this to reaffirm his belief in the system/game. It's a special type of cruelness because the money he spent on the tickets and bread was nothing to him. He could've given each person both of each and continued to be rich. But he doesn't because he views them as wastes who don't deserve it.

When holding Kim and Choi Woo-seok hostage. He ties them up and bounds them with dog bone gags. Something he probably got from the love hotel on such short notice. There are countless jokes about the gags, but I do think they have meaning. The recruiter is called a dog by Gi-hun. Something that means he's below his masters. He did not like getting told that by Gi-hun. We know the recruiter likes putting others below him. The show choice of specifically dog bones, to me, is another instance of him transferring that powerlessness to those below him. To have a sense of power and control. A reminder that he's made it. He even plays a classical song during the game (and even during russian roulette). With the song named "Time to Say Goodbye", it's one last mocking. Classical songs are seen as very high class. It's the kind of music played in the games. And that's what the recruiter enjoys and strives for.

We know that during his pink soldier days, he ended up shooting his dad. There are two beliefs people come to about him. That he was either a regular dad or a bad one. If he was a regular one, it shows that the trauma of poverty and capitalism can make you turn against loved ones. If he wasn't, it shows that already vulnerable people with no support are more likely to get preyed on by the privileged. The recruiter ends up saying a line I found interesting, "One day, they gave me a gun. I liked the way it felt. It was like someone had finally acknowledged my existence. " This was the most vulnerable we've seen him. This implies he didn't feel he had support until he was given power. A bad kind of power given to him by Oh Il-nam. He was being set up to become a valuable asset, not a person. That line could imply he didn't feel acknowledged not only by nobody before the games, but by even his family. If that's true, then that could further explain his happy attitude when he talked about shooting his dad. If he already sucked, then he was even worse by being desperate enough to play the games. Even all that aside, his feelings about his dad didn't matter. He had a job to do. If he couldn't do his job, he could get killed. It's either his dad dies or he dies. And that's exactly how the system works. He knows it's a dog eat dog world.

He becomes such a strong believer in the system he is willing to die for it. He followed the rules of Russian roulette because if he didn't, he'd go against of the rules of the system he wholeheartedly believes in. The system who got him to greatness. The system wants you to kill and die to uphold it, so that's why he does it.

Before he shoots himself, half his face is confident while the other half is scared. Gong Yoo has said he did that on purpose. Even before death, he was putting on a confident performance. But his fear, from seeing that HIS luck with the system ran out, was enough to crack through. From what we've seen of him, he's almost never genuine. He puts on a customer like service kindness. When we know he hates the people he recruits/interacts with. The most genuine we've seen him was during rock paper scissors and russian roulette. And even then, he's putting on a show trying to freak out the players. He looks down on them, and he wants to be the one in control. He's not allowed to be genuine with those he recruits, nor does he let himself. He's a good employee who does his best for his employers. And that's exactly it, he's another employee who's easily replaceable. After the recruiters' death, we don't see In-ho worry about it. No one cares because there's others like him. As Gi-hun has said, he runs around, barks, and grovels like a dog for his master. The recruiter is no one special, no matter how much he sucks up to those in power. It shows best in his lack of a name. His personhood doesn't matter, what matters is his job.

[solentient]

In another life. A danon story

Synopsis: A knight and princess should never be together. Nor should two women. And their fate is proof of that.

Pairing: Manon and Daniela

TW: Death, Mentions of heaven & Hell, Homophobia, Foul words, Lk rushed so like ignore the bad writing & design LMAO

Enjoy:)

In a distant land, beyond the reach of time and memory, lay the kingdom of Meret. It was a land of grandeur and power, ruled by King Aldric and Queen Lysandra. Their daughter, Princess Meret Manon, was the kingdom’s future, the sole heir to the throne. But despite the riches and prestige that came with being royalty, Manon found her happiness not in luxury but in the presence of one person—Daniela.

Daniela was Meret’s most formidable warrior, her name spread with admiration across the land. She was fierce, fearless, and unwavering in her duty. But to Manon, she was more than just a warrior. Daniela was her protector, her confidante, her only friend.

But, above all, she was the love of Manon’s life.

However, nothing seems to last.

For when King Aldric discovered the truth, his blood boiled. A princess should not love a mere warrior—especially a woman. It was an abomination in his eyes, a stain upon the royal bloodline. He forbade Manon from seeing Daniela ever again, his decree absolute.

“You are the heir of our kingdom! And you want me to accept the fact that you’re marrying a knight? A woman nonetheless.” Her father shouted. Furious about his daughter’s actions, He barged inside her room.

“So what?! It’s my life! I can spend it however I want.” Manon replies, standing her ground against her father, for once.

“I will not allow my daughter to be a spawn of the devil and be tempted to commit a sin. Either you break it up, or I will have her beheaded.”

Manon begged, pleaded, but her father’s will was iron. In the end, with the weight of the kingdom pressing upon her shoulders, she did the only thing she could do. She looked into Daniela’s eyes, those warm brown eyes that had always shielded her from the world, and whispered the cruelest lie she had ever spoken.

“I don’t love you anymore.”

“W-what?” Daniela’s breath hitched. She had faced countless enemies, walked through battlefields drenched in blood, but never had she felt a pain as deep as this.

“A princess and a mere knight should never be together. This was just all a stupid mistake on my part, Please stay away from me from now on. His highness should be appointing a new guard soon.”

And so, with nothing left to hold on to, she walked away.

Days passed. Weeks. The distance between them became a wound that time could never heal.

Then, one fateful night, the kingdom was attacked. Meret’s enemy, the ruthless kingdom of Rhdalvania, launched a brutal assault. Their goal? The princess.

Manon stood frozen in the chaos, her heart pounding as an archer took aim. The arrow shot forward, death fast approaching—

Until Daniela was there.

She shoved Manon aside, her own body taking the blow. The arrow lodged deep into her chest. Blood spilled, staining the ground.

Manon caught her before she collapsed, her trembling hands pressing against the wound as if sheer desperation could undo fate.

“Stay with me,” she begged, her tears falling onto Daniela’s pale face. “Please.” Daniela tried to speak, but no words came. A faint, smile touched her lips before the light in her eyes faded. “I’m so sorry. I love you so much, Manz.”

And Manon shattered.

The kingdom celebrated Daniela as a hero, but to Manon, there was no glory in her death. Only emptiness. Only grief.

Three days after Daniela’s funeral, Manon made her choice. Standing at the castle’s tallest tower, she whispered to the wind, “Maybe in another life, we can be together.”

Then she stepped forward. Taking her own life.

In a new world, Daniela lived once more. Yet, deep in her heart, an ache remained—one she could never understand, a longing for someone she had never met.

Then, one day, she did meet her.

A girl named Manon.

But this Manon was different.

She was dying.

And Daniela, now bound to another, could do nothing but watch as history repeated itself. “Maybe, we really weren’t meant for each other.”

“Please don’t give up on us, I’ll wait for you, however many lives it will take.” For fate, it seemed, had always been cruel.

Daniela, having died with courage and sacrifice, was granted a new life. A blessed existence where she was cherished, loved, destined for happiness.

Manon, who had died by her own hand, was denied the same mercy. She was cast into the void, unable to return.

They were never meant to meet again for Daniela did an act of good, and Manon did an act of evil.

A gift for @hwonnrinji nd @cinnamanz 💞🩷 rly bad writing guys bare w me

[thatscarletflycatcher]

Lord David Cecil's famous appraisal of Elizabeth Gaskell, selected quotes for the purposes of a drinking game

(we suggest a non-alcoholic one, for the purposes of avoiding a visit to the ER. All fragments taken from Early Victorian Novelists (1934). Take a shot every time:

the words "feminine", "unintellectual", "minor", "simple", "sheltered", "mild" and synonyms.

He compares her unfavorably to another Victorian writer.

He gives the most backhanded praise possible.)

Feel free to share your favorite Lord Cecil mean comment in the notes!

"Charlotte Brontë’s admirers do not think of her as Mrs. Nichols; George Eliot’s admirers would wonder whom one meant if one referred to her as Mrs. Cross. But Elizabeth Cleghorn Stevenson is known to the world as Mrs. Gaskell. This is just as it should be. There is a great difference between her and her famous rivals: and this difference is fitly symbolized in the different form of name under which she elected to write. The outstanding fact about Mrs. Gaskell is her femininity."

"we have only to look at a portrait of Mrs. Gaskell, soft-eyed, beneath her charming veil, to see that she was a dove. In an age whose ideal of woman emphasized the feminine qualities at the expense of all others, she was all a woman was expected to be; gentle, domestic, tactful, unintellectual, prone to tears, easily shocked. So far from chafing at the limits imposed on her activities, she accepted them with serene satisfaction. She married young and had seven children: he performed with decorous enthusiasm the duties expected of a Unitarian minister’s wife; she looked up to man as her sex’s rightful and benevolent master. Nor were her interests incongruous with her character and position. It is true that she was religious and philanthropic. But her religion was a simple undenominational piety, innocent alike of mysticism and dogmatic definition; while her philanthropy was a district visitor’s philanthropy—an affair of practical individual sympathy, concerned to make the rich more charitable and the poor more comfortable. And when she had finished with her prayers and her personal tour of the parish, she was perfectly content to sit down and gossip to a neighbour about marriages and clothes and servants and children. As Trollope was the typical Victorian man, so Mrs. Gaskell was the typical Victorian woman."

"Her rambling, unequal, enthralling novels, full of providential chances and comic character-parts and true love rewarded in the last chapter, are typical Victorian novels. Only with a single difference. Her novels are Victorian novels, for the first time transposed into the feminine key. They are David Copperfield and Barchester Towers, written by a minister’s wife in her drawing-room."

"Now it is not to be denied that this did in some measure detract from her stature as a novelist. For one thing, it meant that her work was wholly lacking in the virile qualities. Her genius is so purely feminine that it excludes from her achievement not only specifically masculine themes, but all the more masculine qualities of thought and feeling. She was very clever; but with a feminine cleverness, instinctive, rule-of-thumb; showing itself in illuminations of the particular, not in general intellectual structure. The conscious reason plays little part in her creative processes. She could not build a story around a central idea, like Meredith, or argue from her particular observation to discover a general conception of the laws governing human conduct, like Thackeray. Nor could she describe intellectual characters."

"Her emotional capacity is no less feminine than her intellectual. She is not a powerful writer. She could no more express the crude, the harsh or the violent than she could speak in a bass voice. "

"Even such repressed intensities as might reasonably be supposed to come within her view, even such violent emotions as ladies in vicarages did feel, are beyond Mrs. Gaskell’s imaginative range."

"Mrs. Gaskell’s femininity imposed a more serious limit on her achievement. It made her a minor artist."

"Mrs. Gaskell has the merits, as well as the defects of her limitations. Her particular kind of femininity endowed her imagination with certain virtues that those of her contemporaries are without. ‘Taste, for instance; the Victorian lady was brought up before all things to be careful not to offend against the canons of good taste. And so apt and dutiful a pupil as Mrs. Gaskell profited to the full by this instruction. She was sometimes weak and often uninspired; she did not now how to be awkward, obtrusive or over-florid."

"She never, as Dickens does, makes nauseating an effect of simple pathos by dressing it up in all the airs and graces of an elaborate rhetoric. And though like Trollope she is sometimes dull, unlike him she is never commonplace."

"This feminine eye for detail is closely associated with a feminine subtlety. It is an innocent, even an unconscious subtlety. Mrs. Gaskell was far too unintellectual to analyse her impressions. She just sat down and described what she saw. But this, within the limited area of her vision, was a great deal."

"But though Mrs. Gaskell was subtle, she was not sophisticated. Here we come to her fourth asset her freshness of outlook. Cloistered like a young girl in her convent of peaceful domesticity, she ever lost the young girl’s eager-eyed response to the world. Mrs. Gaskell had not a chance to grow blasé. Her mental palate, fed always, as it were, on the fruit and frothing milk of her nursery days, kept a nursery simplicity and gusto. And in consequence her whole picture of life is touched with a peculiar dewy freshness, shimmers with a vivifying, softening spring light. It does not matter that she had nothing very new to say. As a matter of fact her most elaborate descriptions are concerned with hackneyed subjects, summer gardens, picturesque village streets. And her sentiment is as unoriginal as her objects of admiration: regret for childish happiness, pity for lonely old age. Nor does she exhibit these hoary perennials of literature from a new angle: as we have remarked, she saw and felt very much as any person of her period saw and felt; and she expresses herself without any startling individuality of phrase or image. But the unsophisticated, whole-hearted way in which she responds to her inspiration enables her successfully to dare the danger of the obvious."

"Her subtlety, as we have seen, is not an intellectual subtlety; it does not strike deep, it is incapable f the massive and intricate development of that of Henry James. And her very fastidiousness deprives her freshness of that smack of the animal earth which makes bracing the freshness of Fielding... So has Mrs. Gaskell’s imagination—it breathes a charm at once exquisite and natural, homely and delicate; the charm of an untaught voice, that is always perfectly true and pure, of a child’s unconscious grace of movement."

"the life of the poor among themselves, the teeming, squalid, vivid life of the democracy that surges through the pages of Dickens, she does not understand at all."

"Mrs. Gaskell cannot draw a full-length portrait of a man... Huge, clumsy, hairy creatures, incapable of understanding those aspects of life which most interested her, but awe-inspiring from their superior wisdom and strength, even when they did come into the drawing-room they baffled and flustered her."

"Mrs. Gaskell brings only a small group of figures to set beside the myriad smiling, frowning faces alled up by the wand of Trollope or Dickens. But these few are unforgettable. They can be divided into two groups: the two kinds of women whose life is not directly concerned with men. The first are her young girls. She is not always successful, even with these. When she leaves her own ground for that of George Eliot and tries to describe an “ unusual ”’ girl of serious interests and independent character, like Margaret Hale, the result is only a monument of maidenly priggishness. her convincing heroines— Phillis Holman, Molly Gibson—are typical Victorian heroines—a little more retiring and bookish than Agnes or Laura or Grace Crawley, but essentially the same type; gentle, unintellectual, domesticated."

"Would not we sacrifice twenty Mollys for a single Cynthia? Mrs. Gaskell never asks herself such questions. The Victorian standards in which she had been educated told her that Molly was indisputably better than Cynthia. And she was no more capable of questioning these standards than she was of flying. The very idea, indeed, that she had stirred such questionings in her readers would have filled her with horrified dismay."

"Mrs. Jamieson, Mrs. Gibson, are figures in Jane Austen’s manner; sisters of Mrs. Bennet and Lady Bertram. Of course, they are not drawn with anything like the same edge and force."

"For the most part her satire is acute but not caustic, penetrating but not cruel. She could no more have made fun, as Jane Austen did, of old Mrs. Musgrove’s “‘ large fat sighings ” over her dead son, than she could have blasphemed in church."

"Mrs. Gaskell’s pathos is as good as her humour. Like everything else about her it is a little weak."

"we never feel, as we do only too often with Dickens, that she is exploiting our tears for her own glory and without sufficient artistic justification. Her emotion is, as it were, disinfected of sickly sentimentality, by the candid sincerity with which it is expressed."

"mild, feminine Victorian as she was, Mrs. Gaskell had none of Hardy’s insight into the harsher aspects of nature"

"For Mrs. Gaskell, in her minor way, is a poet. Naturally, she is a minor poet."

"Mrs. Gaskell’s technical powers are as typical of her school and personality as the rest of her achievement. Her form, indeed, is less obviously faulty than that of her contemporaries; her tidy feminine mind would have been ashamed to let her inspiration appear before the world in so careless and ill-fitting a dress as that which often shrouded those of Dickens or Charlotte Brontë… She never seems to have realised that a slight inspiration like hers should be embodied in a slight structure; that you cannot paint a life-size portrait in water-colours."

"Mrs. Gaskell’s style is better than her form; indeed, it is one of her chief glories. It is not, of course, a great style; it lacks the spare athletic vigour of the best plain stylists, and the magnificence of the best elaborate ones. Moreover, her want of intellectual grasp makes it at times both loose and wordy."

"Like Dickens’ and Charlotte Bronté’s, Mrs. Gaskell’s work is as faulty as it is inspired: and for the same reason. Like them she commits the novelist’s most fatal fault, she writes outside her range. For she too was the instinctive, uncritical child of an instinctive, uncritical age, ignorant alike of the laws governing her art and of her particular capacities and limitations. When her imagination was fired, she had no idea that she ought to find a form appropriate to it. She just fitted it as best she could into the form commonly used by the novelists of her day. "

"her dramatic episodes—the murder in Mary Barton, the riot in North and South, the press-gang scenes of Sylvia’s Lovers—are utterly unlike such episodes in real life. They are melodrama; and bad melodrama at that. Mrs. Gaskell had none of that sense of dramatic atmosphere which enabled Dickens to shed a limelight excitement over his stagiest scenes, none of that dynamic itality which made him able to inject a pulsing heart-throb into his most fustian flights of eloquence. Her dramatic eloquence is as stilted and second-hand as that of an electioneering pamphlet; her murders and riots are as glassily, rigidly unreal as a waxwork tableau at Madame Tussaud’s."

"She therefore wrote both Mary Barton and North and South in order to expose these evils and suggest a remedy. It would have been impossible for her if she had tried, to have found a subject less suited to her talents. It was neither domestic nor pastoral. It gave scope neither to the humorous, the pathetic nor the charming. Further, it entailed an understanding of economics and history wholly outside the range of her Victorian feminine intellect. And the only emotions it could involve were masculine and violent ones. Mrs. Gaskell makes a creditable effort to overcome her natural deficiencies; she fills her pages with scenes of strife and sociological argument, with pitiless employers and ragged starving cotton-spinners—but all in vain. Her employers and spinners are wooden mouthpieces, not flesh-and-blood individuals; her arguments are anthologies of platitude; her riot and strike scenes are her usual feeble melodrama."

"A great part of her work is artistically worthless; unlit by that flame of creative imagination which alone could make it living literature to-day."

[drownedinapond]

I've been seeing mutuals or people I follow get hate for liking Regulus, and in an effort to not hijack anyone's post, I'll barf my thoughts out here to get them out of my head. Stuff gets stuck circling around there for weeks if I don't. Will get a bit political cause I'm me.

I don't want to rehash the points other people have made because they put it very well. I will include a summary though, for anyone who hasn't seen this stuff on their dash:

Death eaters are the magical version of members of Nazi or fascist parties, obviously. Pure blood supremacists are Nazi and fascist supporters, even though they're not directly members of the party. Why wouldn't they be if they agree with their views? It's a big undertaking, people view politics as a waste of time on any side of the political spectrum, it's risky to attach your name to anything official etc.

Walburga and Orion are clearly pure blood supremacists in the canon and if you don't think so, please work on your reading comprehension.

Real people are immensely influenced by their environment, especially as children; characters are supposed to be representations of real people; Regulus' unique mix of nature + nurture made it so that he is too afraid to disobey what he has been taught until he reaches his limit, and didn't have any support to spur him in the right direction, unlike Sirius.

I want to add on to that by talking about headcanons and their impact.

Firstly, headcanons, specifically in the Marauders fandom, are mostly treated as canon since we have so little to work with, and many of us disrespect the canon on purpose because fuck jkr. There are a bunch of headcanons that the majority of us agree on, such as Dorcas being in Slytherin, Regulus' animagus being a black cat etc. People that like Regulus, don't agree with or are ignorant of Canon Regulus, the very little that there is of him at that! They either like Headcanon/Fanon Regulus who makes a sincere effort to right his wrongs OR they are fascinated by Canon Regulus as an interesting character, which doesn't mean they endorse his actions (can't believe that needs to be said). Same thing applies for Evan and Barty.

The Fanon version has the amazing ability to show what circumstances might lead to someone having violently bigoted beliefs, and in some cases, what it takes for them to shed those beliefs and take accountability for their actions. In my opinion, it's incredibly important to show that narrative, especially as written by people with no financial stake in what they convey, because of the times we're living in. The USA is a good example.

The circumstances that majority of the citizens in the United States were raised in implanted bigoted beliefs in them, some more subtle than others. Those circumstances persist and even get worse. That does not mean Americans deserve punishment, isolation, belittlement or ridiculisation. Those things make bigotry worse. They need new thought models and to be shown that unity and diversity make life better and safer for everyone. It takes people of the global south and marginalised groups in their own country to liberate the average citizens from themselves and then their government. Punishment for the sake of punishment doesn't resolve anything, though some people might interpret responsibility and necessary violence as punishment.

That being said, Regulus might not be compared to an average citizen, since he was so rich, but I think many people that grew up in bigoted environments can see themselves in him, even if they don't fit his story beat by beat. If you reduce Regulus to his worst parts, what does that imply about their hope that they can make a difference? If you wish Regulus' character and those similar would be collectively hated by everyone in the fandom, what does that say about them? Still, in a way, people that reduce Regulus to his worst parts add to the poetry: you can choose to do good in spite of the fact that you will always be viewed as evil, and that good still counts more than everyone else's opinions of you. (Hello Wei Wuxian)

I know people's hurt feelings aren't our focus in the cause of global liberation and I agree, victims should definitely come first, but hurt feelings lead to action. We could use all the manpower we can get, therefore it's better to make allies rather than enemies. And allies are made with understanding and patience. Not everyone has the strength of character to go against everything they've ever known on their own, as exemplified by Regulus.

So I do think that people bashing others for liking him are getting on a moral high horse and losing the bigger picture. If you categorise characters as good and bad, it's a sign that you have the tendency to do that with real people too, which is dehumanising. You can change though, like Regulus did 👍

*you can be part of a marginalized group and still hold bigoted beliefs, obviously...

**I'm not speaking out of my ass on real world comparisons, I've been reading books on political and social issues for years.

***I've been debating if I should tag you as a show of support, @messingwithmoony, for literal hours at this point, so I will choose to do it in hopes that it's a nice gesture, BUT if you are uncomfortable with it in any way, please dm me and I will remove this part! There are absolutely no hard feelings whatsoever!

[g1rlsp1ckins]

🍵 + ☕️ + 🍹 for the shifting ask game !

𝓢HIFTING 𝓐SK ✶ 𝓖AME

gonna do this ask game for my modern marauders dr!!

🍵 strawberry matcha . . . what scents remind you of your relationship? maybe this is a perfume or cologne your lover wears, a candle scent that reminds you of the soothing energy you feel around them, or an essential oil you spritz on your pillow before shifting.

- for this question, it reminds me of amortentia, so I'm going to talk about what i believe their amortentia smells like

˗ˏˋ Regulus Black’s Amortentia is a portrait of quiet mystery, each note unveiling a piece of his soul. The cool, invigorating breath of eucalyptus speaks of his composed exterior, sharp and untouchable, while the dark, velvety sweetness of black currant lingers—a hidden ache, a secret fire. Sandalwood weaves through, warm and grounding, a timeless elegance steeped in tradition. Yet, beneath it all lies the faint, familiar trace of a worn Quidditch jersey, a whisper of youth, mischief, and fleeting freedom. It is a scent both sharp and tender, cloaked in shadows yet endlessly compelling, like the boy it belongs to. ˎˊ˗

˗ˏˋ James Potter’s Amortentia is a symphony of scents, each note a reflection of his soul. The crisp breath of fresh spring air carries the promise of freedom, entwined with the rich, grounding warmth of cedarwood and the soft, worn leather of his trusted Quidditch gloves. Clean cotton lingers, a quiet whisper of comfort and care, while the bright zest of citrus dances like sunlight through leaves, sharp and full of life. Beneath it all lies the faint, familiar tang of broom polish, a secret ode to endless skies and dreams of flight. It is a fragrance bold, untamed, and unforgettable—just like him. ˎˊ˗

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☕️ hot chocolate . . . what does the winter season look like for you two? are you two the type to stay cozy inside and order takeout, or would you rather go for a walk in the snow ? do you celebrate any holidays, birthdays, or anniversaries together during winter?

˗ˏˋ Winter for Florence, Regulus, and James was a season of contrast—equal parts chaotic adventure and quiet intimacy, depending on their mood and whose idea won out that day. The three had a rhythm, balancing James’s relentless energy, Florence’s need for comfort, and Regulus’s fondness for quieter, meaningful traditions.

---

Snowy Adventures and Quiet Nights In

James was always the first to insist on going outside, dragging Florence and Regulus into the snow for impromptu Quidditch matches, snowball fights, or midnight walks through frost-covered fields. He had a knack for making even the simplest outing feel magical. Florence would usually groan and protest, but she secretly loved the way James’s childlike enthusiasm made her forget the cold. Regulus, on the other hand, would roll his eyes at James’s insistence but still end up trudging along, a scarf wrapped neatly around his neck, muttering about how reckless it was to be out in the freezing weather. Inevitably, James would charm Regulus into a snowball fight or convince him to skate on a frozen lake, and Regulus, despite himself, would find moments of joy in the chaos.

On other days, when the cold felt too biting or James’s energy waned, they’d stay inside. Florence would throw on an oversized sweater and curl up with a guitar, softly strumming as Regulus read beside her, his feet tucked under a blanket. James, of course, couldn’t sit still for long—he’d be in the kitchen trying to make hot chocolate (and inevitably burning it), or sprawled across the floor attempting to beat Regulus at chess. They’d argue, Florence would laugh, and the night would end with the three of them tangled together on the sofa, sharing blankets and trading lazy stories.

---

Holidays and Anniversaries

Winter was also a season of celebration for the trio. They always made a point of spending Christmas together, even if it meant sneaking Regulus away from his family obligations. Their Christmases were messy and unconventional—Florence would drag them out to a Muggle tree farm to pick the most absurdly tall Christmas tree, James would insist on decorating it with magic, and Regulus, ever the perfectionist, would spend hours fixing their chaotic handiwork. They exchanged gifts that were equal parts thoughtful and ridiculous: Regulus would gift Florence rare, vintage records he’d tracked down in obscure shops, James would give Regulus enchanted Quidditch gear, and Florence would crochet them matching scarves in their respective house colors (even if James teased her for the uneven stitching).

New Year’s was another shared tradition. James and Florence would somehow convince Regulus to attend whatever wild party he and Sirius had planned, but when the clock struck midnight, it was always just the three of them—standing on a balcony or huddled by the fire, toasting with stolen champagne and laughing about the past year.

---

Winter for them was a mix of tradition and spontaneity—a season of snowflakes and scarves, laughter, and love. It wasn’t perfect, but it was theirs, full of memories they carried with them long after the snow melted.

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🍹 margarita . . . what do summers look like for you + your s/o? are you two the type to lounge in front of a pool, or do you prefer to be at the beach? would they play mermaids with you in the sea, or would they rather collect seashells with you as you walk along the shoreline? what would a “beach episode” in your lives look like?

˗ˏˋ Summers for Florence, Regulus, and James were filled with sunlit chaos, late-night adventures, and the kind of warmth that came from having found each other. Where winter brought moments of quiet reflection and cozy nights, summer was their time to let loose and live in the moment.

---

Road Trips and Escapes

Florence had an old, beat-up Muggle car that barely ran, but she insisted on driving it anyway, blasting music from the crackling radio. James would sit in the passenger seat, hanging out the window with his sunglasses on, shouting directions as Florence rolled her eyes and ignored him. Regulus, who’d never even been in a Muggle car before, would sit in the back seat, arms crossed and quietly judging the state of the vehicle. Despite his protests about the lack of air conditioning and how “this car is an absolute death trap,” he couldn’t help but enjoy the freedom it brought.

They’d take off with no particular destination in mind—stopping at tiny cafes in forgotten towns, swimming in secluded lakes, and staying up until sunrise, lying on blankets in open fields to stargaze. James would try to drag them into every ridiculous roadside attraction, while Regulus would find the charm in places that surprised even him. Florence was the glue, balancing their extremes, taking Polaroids of James posing like an idiot and Regulus looking unintentionally beautiful in the golden light.

---

Beach Days and Bonfires

On especially hot days, they’d escape to the coast. James would be the first in the water, cannonballing in and splashing Florence and Regulus until they finally joined him. Florence loved the ocean—she’d paddle out just far enough to feel the waves’ pull, hair damp and salty, laughing as James tried to pull off some ridiculous underwater stunt. Regulus, true to form, preferred to sit on the shore with a book, occasionally glancing up to make sure neither of them drowned. But even he couldn’t resist when Florence dragged him in, her hand clasping his wrist as she grinned and promised, “It’s not that bad, Reg.”

When the sun went down, they’d build bonfires on the sand. Florence would bring her guitar, strumming softly while James roasted marshmallows (and inevitably set them on fire). Regulus would sit close enough to feel the warmth, watching the flames dance and letting himself relax in a way he never could anywhere else. They’d trade stories, teasing each other endlessly, until the fire burned low and they dozed off under the stars.

---

Lazy Days and Small Moments

Not every day was an adventure. Some days were spent lounging in the Lupin family’s garden, Florence sprawled in the shade of an old tree while James tried (and failed) to teach Regulus how to throw a Muggle frisbee. Other afternoons, they’d sneak into Sirius’s flat, where James and Florence would make a mess of the kitchen trying to cook, and Regulus would sip iced tea and pretend not to be amused by their antics.

---

Celebrations and Milestones

Summers were also a time for birthdays and milestones. With Florence and Regulus's birthdays so close, the days in between often became a blend of shared moments. On June 23rd or 24th, they’d hold an unofficial “in-between day” celebration—a mix of Florence’s chaos and Regulus’s elegance. It usually involves something spontaneous, like a bonfire by the sea or a road trip to a little-known village. These in-between days were carefree and lighthearted, a way for them to bask in the simplicity of summer and the unique bond they shared.

In true James fashion, he’d often joke, “You two are so lucky to have me around to make these birthdays actually fun,” earning an eyeroll from Regulus and a playful shove from Florence. But deep down, all three of them knew these days—filled with laughter, love, and a little bit of chaos—were the best part of their summer.

For Regulus, who had spent so many summers alone in the cold halls of Grimmauld Place, these moments were everything. With Florence and James, summer became more than just a season—it was freedom, laughter, and love. The three of them, in all their messy, imperfect glory, built a summer they’d carry with them long after the days grew shorter. ˎˊ˗

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this was incredibly long and tedious, but I have lots to say on the topics because I love my boys😭

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made by @g1rlsp1ckins

[echoingbirdsofprey]

Back Forty View (On Our Piece Of Ground)

10 - I Will Always Return

Pairings: Tyler Owens x OFC Georgia Tennley-Owens, Jake 'Hangman' Seresin x OFC Samantha Kazansky

Rating: Explicit (MDNI!)

Warnings: Just a whole lotta angst and sad, but a smidgen of happy at the end. More babies???

A/N: I was soooo stuck on this one so it's a little short but I think it rounds out this part of the plot nicely so that we can get both pairs back by themselves for a bit. Don't worry though this won't be the last chapter of this story, just the last one for a little bit while Tyler and Gee and Jake and Sam focus on each other again. As always I am ecstatic that y'all continue to read, comment, reblog, and so on. Knowing you enjoy this story as much as I do fuels me to write more! Gifs by @kaizsche Pics from Pinterest and a little collage by me in the middle. And there's a wee surpprise at the end, a little banner/collage thingy since so many of you seemed to enjoy that. Please enjoy!

Tags: @mrsevans90 @djs8891 @gpsmississippihippie @barnesboo1967 @dizzybee03 @coloraturadiva @kmc1989 @khouse712

“Jacob Seresin. What do you have to say for yourself?” Officer Mullins said, glancing at the school superintendent. 

“I’m real sorry. I won’t do it again.” Jake murmured, his gaze flicking from his father to the cop, then down. He’d folded his hands behind his back and his heart was pounding.

“No you won’t. Because if you do, you’ll go to jail. Now I hope that maybe you find God, or perhaps some sort of structure to keep you in line. Maybe the Military, like your stepfather.” The superintendent said, making it a point to emphasize the word ‘stepfather’ which made Jake ball his fists behind his back. Kenny noticed that and clapped a hand on the young man’s shoulder, rubbing firmly to ease the tension. 

“Yessir.” Jake agreed softly, not daring to look anyone in the eyes.

“You're dismissed.” The superintendent waved a hand and sat at his desk. Jake had nearly gotten expelled. He wasn’t going to take anyone talking shit about his brother, especially not some dumb football jock who’s dad is rich and gets everything handed to him. Jake wouldn’t fucking have it. He was just sorry that Tyler didn’t see him knock the kid senseless. He’d be proud of him for five seconds and then once Tyler heard what his punishment was, he’d be pissed. Jake started praying in the truck on the way home, because it was going to be rough on an out of school suspension just before graduation.

“Jake. I swear to god, boy, you better figure somethin’ out.” Kenny’s voice was rough, and stern as he drove out of the school parking lot. 

“I’m sorry, Kenny...dad...I’m sorry...” Jake said, twiddling with his thumbs and watching as they passed some of the Emory Family’s wheatfields. 

“I know you are Jake but damn it, why’d you have to do it? You couldn’t just let it go. You need to get that temper under control.” Kenny said, sighing heavily.

“I’m sorry...” Jake said, again, his tone apologetic and coming out almost flustered. He didn’t know how to not defend his family. He didn’t know how to not stand up for them.

“Y’know, maybe the Navy would be good for you. Give you somethin’ to expel all that pent up bullshit on.” Kenny looked pointedly at Jake, taking a left instead of a right toward their house. They headed to the Navy Recruitment office to see what Jake could do from there. 

Later that day, the green pickup rumbled along, the engine louder than ever. Jake knew it needed an oil change when it did that, and he would get around to it eventually, but he was trying to make sure he got top marks in class and stayed in tip top shape. Once he graduated, he was off to the Navy. And Tyler, well, Tyler was off to start his rodeo career. 

Jake popped a CD in and a twangy country song began to play as he glanced over at his brother, who was mouthing the words with a huge smile on his face and his arm slung out the window. Tyler shot him a look, full of pride but also concern. Tyler was ecstatic that Jake was joining the Navy, but he was also worried. What if he got deployed and got killed? But he knew it was what Jake needed to rein him in. Tyler had to push those thoughts out of his mind for now and enjoy being with his brother instead.

🌪️ 🛩️🛻⚓

Jake sat on the couch at his parent’s house, feeling the depression creep in and slowly consume him. Samantha and Jeanie had gone to the store and he was glad of that, knowing that his mother approved of his fiance. Kenny was out mowing the lawn, having had Tyler fix the tractor for him. 

Ballast, Jake’s dog through and through, sat with his head on Jake’s lap, his ever deepening amber eyes continually checking in on his owner. He would whine every once in a while and then poke Jake if he stopped petting him. Jake sighed heavily and then began to speak to the young dog.

“I don’t wanna go back to California bud. I wanna fly again...but I wanna stay here. I didn’t know how much I missed it here until I came back. I don’t know if I can say goodbye so soon.” He murmured, his fingers scratching behind Ballast’s ears. The dog shifted, his brows furrowing. Jake couldn't get over how expressive the dog was sometimes. “And...I’m freakin’ out about Sam...like, how can she not be pregnant already? It’s me, right? I’ve gotta be shootin’ blanks because there’s no way such a perfect, gorgeous, beautiful fucking woman could have anything wrong with her... fuck . I know I’m the problem...I’m always the problem.”

Ballast raised his head, staring straight into Jake’s eyes, amber burning through green steadily like a forest fire. Jake smiled weakly, his hand running down the dog’s back. Ballast stretched up and licked Jake’s cheek, then went to nibble on his ear. Jake laughed and rubbed the dog’s head, then pulled him into a hug. Ballast put a paw over Jake’s shoulder. In that moment, Jake felt like he was eighteen again, a fucking delinquent helpless to do anything else but hug the damn family dog because she’d been the only one not disappointed in him. 

As Jake wallowed in his sadness, Ballast sat quietly, across his lap, offering the same support that the dog’s dad had that first time he’d met Ryker. In so many ways, Ballast had become so much like Maddox, and Jake was thankful for that. There were things that dog had opened up in him, scars that he’d scratched at that Jake couldn’t put away. Jake’s anger, which always manifested because he was being protective, was the biggest one, and the harshest. 

“You get mad at him, he’s gonna come at you, Jake. He’s gonna take you down a peg. Control your anger.”

Jake’s gaze settled on Ballast. He took a deep, shuddering breath, which the dog noticed and again, he curled closer to his human. Ballast didn’t give a fuck about the other two dogs. Not one single fuck. He only cared for Jake. He’d been particularly sticky with Sam lately though and Jake didn’t know if that was an indication of anything. Jake was snapped from his introspection then by the front door opening. Rocco and Muster barked once each, and then went back to laying down together in a warm ball.

“Hey.” Sam said, as she helped Jeanie bring in the groceries that she’d gotten. Jake snapped his fingers at Ballast, who moved off his lap and heeled to Jake as he helped grab more bags. Jeanie wanted to get a lot while she had the help, knowing that Tyler and Georgia wouldn’t be along to visit for a little while with Jaycen. They’d have to go up toward Stillwater to see their grandson, which wasn’t a problem, but they knew Tyler and Georgia were also busy with work too. 

“Hi.” Jake kissed her on the cheek as he took some of the bags, placing them on the counter. Sam began putting food away as Jake went out to get more bags. Jeanie sighed as she met him at the bottom of the stairs.

“Momma. You go sit. I’ll grab the bags.” He said softly, taking them gently from her. She smiled as she patted his arm and used him to help her up the stairs. 

“You’re always a good boy, Jake. Thank you. I’ll rest my feet and then start on dinner. You should eat before you head out.” She said and Jake nodded. He grabbed the rest of the groceries, and helped Sam put them away. All three of the dogs had risen and Jake decided to take them for a short walk to the end of the driveway and back. Sam elected to go with him.

“You seem off today. What’s wrong?” She asked, wrapping her arm around his waist. He placed his around her shoulders and they matched steps as they walked. 

“Don’t wanna leave...” He murmured and Sam nodded.

“I know you don’t but we have to go home at some point.” She said, pulling him closer. He let out a deep sigh again, feeling his anxiety bubble. Why was he anxious?

“This is my home.” His brows furrowed and Sam drew back slightly. He knew he shouldn’t have said it.

“What about my home, Jake?” She asked, stopping. He came to a halt too and she stepped away from him. He shook his head, reaching for her.

“I know...I’m sorry. I’m just...I don’t know...” He couldn’t express his thoughts to words that would be what she wanted to hear at that moment. Sam wanted to go home. The only thing tethering Jake to Miramar was her. Of course there was his promotion and all that, but he could be a Lieutenant Commander anywhere in the world. He didn’t have to stay specifically in Miramar to do that. He could be stationed in Oklahoma City at Tinker Air Force Base, or he could be even closer in Enid, at Vance Air Force Base, which employed an active flying academy. If he wanted to teach, he could be closer to home instead of being stationed in Miramar. But he also understood that it was where Sam felt the most comfortable. And Jake would be uncomfortable so that she could be okay. He’d promised her that much.

🌪️ 🛩️🛻⚓

This was the fucking worst. 

Jake said goodbye to Jeanie and Kenny and he held it together. He was okay with that because he’d left a hundred times before, but this, this was fucking heartbreaking. 

He hugged his brother tightly, too tight. So tight that Tyler had to pry him away. When his brother looked into his eyes, the matching sage green meeting, his brow furrowed and he sighed.

“It’ll be okay, Jakey. You’ll be back soon enough.” Tyler’s voice was low, at a whisper, because he knew Jake didn’t want to leave. He knew Jake wanted to stay here, but he couldn’t. Sam was tugging his heartstrings so fucking hard to go back to California, that it was overriding everything in Jake that made him want to stay. Tyler's voice was quiet because he knew Jake didn’t want Sam to hear what he had to say next. “If somethin’...anythin’...doesn’t work out, you will always have a place here, with me and Gee.”

Jake pulled away then, Tyler’s words stinging. He knew what Tyler meant though. He knew if things got rough and he had to retreat somewhere for a while again, that he could come here. Tyler was well aware that Jake never wanted to leave Samantha, but he also knew that if Jake needed to get away, this home would be open to him for that.

“And you call me more than ya have been the past couple years. Text me as much as you want. I don’t mind.” Tyler’s words were comforting then. 

“I know. Thank you.” Jake said, taking a hold of his brother’s shoulders then, his grip like heavy stone. He backed away from Tyler, only about a foot or so, allowing Georgia to step in smoothly with baby Jaycen. Jake’s eyes grew misty as he gently let his fingers brush over the little boy’s head. He had nearly a full head of hair now, short and sandy brown like his father’s. The boy reached for him, and Jake offered a single finger, which Jaycen wrapped a chubby hand around and giggled as he did so. Georgia watched her husband’s brother’s expression dissolve into one of anguish. Jake could only weakly smile at Georgia, whom he then kissed on the cheek softly before he reached for Sam. 

“Thank you for everything. We’ll be back soon.” Sam said softly to Tyler as she drew back from his warm embrace. She’d already said her goodbyes to Georgia and Jaycen, but as she took Jake’s hand, she carefully hugged the other woman once more. 

Ballast and Grits were just like the brothers, getting in one last play session before they parted ways. It was like the dogs knew. Muster had become fast friends with Waffles, and Pancake had taken a liking to Rocco, but the four quieter dogs all sat in a line near the truck, waiting for a signal. Tyler snapped his fingers for the cattle dogs and Jake opened the back seat for his. He lifted Rocco in and then shut the door. Grits glanced up and whined softly to Tyler, who reached down and patted the red dog’s head.

Georgia saw longing in Samantha’s eyes as she took one last look at little Jaycen as her and Jake piled into the already packed truck with the dogs, their Christmas gifts, packed bags, and some food for along the way in a giant cooler. Georgia would miss that truck, but most of all she would miss her husband’s brother and the wonderful women he’d found. She would miss the dogs and how well they fit in with theirs. 

“Drive safe! Let us know when you get home!” Tyler exclaimed, and as Jake backed out of the space in the driveway and turned around, he waved. Sam did too, and Tyler and Georgia waved back and then they both glanced down at their son and the dogs, who had gathered at their feet. 

The Owens household would be a little too quiet for a little while after that.

🌪️ 🛩️🛻⚓

Jake and Sam drove in silence, the dogs all comfortably napping in the back seat. Their journey home would be around twenty hours of driving and making some pit stops along the way to the Texas Air and Space Museum, the New Mexico Route 66 Museum, the Japanese Garden of Friendship in Phoenix, Arizona, and a short detour to Joshua Tree National Park before finally reaching Miramar.

Jake elected to do the first part of the drive, as he felt like he just needed to. He'd put on a spotify playlist that Tyler had made and shared with him, plenty of country music to keep his thoughts on the road and just a little distracted. Sam was scrolling on her phone and at some point, as the sun began to dip below the horizon, she stopped and placed it on the center console, her gaze settling on the landscape and fading light out the window. 

“Hey.” Jake's voice startled her slightly, but he reached across the console and she intertwined her fingers with his. It was an action he'd done a million times before but this time it had a certain weight to it. There was an uneasy tension between them, and they could both feel it. It was suffocating.

“It's my turn now because I know you're not okay.” Sam said softly, as she squeezed his hand firmly. Jake's eyes left the road for a second and then focused back.

“What's that mean?” He asked, tone flat. She shifted beside him. 

“I know you don't want to go home...to California. I'm forcing you to. I know that.” She admitted and he glanced at her again, but didn't reply, so she continued. “I'm sorry. I just can't leave for good yet.”

Jake's brows knitted and he felt like he should pull over, but he wanted to get to their hotel. His voice came out slightly shaky and it made Sam tear up.

“I told you when I first came home...that I would shatter myself to pieces for you. That I would take all of your pain and get rid of it. I can still do that...but you then need to be patient with me because I need space after everything is put on me. It's why I don't hang out with my detachment sometimes. It's why I like being at home with you and just sitting doin’ fuck all.”

“I’m not asking you to take it all...” She murmured.

“Aren’t you? I told you. I am comfortable in Oklahoma. In Arkansas.” Jake’s knuckles tightened on the steering wheel. Sam noticed this and she placed her other hand on his forearm, rubbing up and down, trying to quell the frustration she could feel building within him.

“We have to go home though. Your job is there. My mother is there. She just lost her husband. I just lost my...” Sam’s words came out choked and she wiped her cheeks with the sleeve of her shirt. Jake’s jaw worked as he felt tears sting his eyes knowing that he was upsetting her. 

“I’m sorry...I don’t wanna fight, Samantha. We’re both tired, we’re both upset, and I don’t think we should keep talking about this while I’m driving. When we get to the hotel...can we pick this up again? Please?” Jake asked, sage green flicking nervously over to her. She nodded and went to take her hand from his but he wouldn’t let her and instead lifted it and touched his lips to the back, leaving them there for a few moments before resting their entwined hands on the console. “Don’t pull away, please. Don’t lea...leave me...” He stuttered.

“I’m not going to leave you, Jake.  I love you...I’m just...having a hard time with this too...you probably don’t realize it but i was happy there too...but I feel obligated to go home. My home is not your home, I know that. But I wish I was your home .”

“Fuck...Sam...Samantha...you...you are my home. But sometimes I just don’t feel like I belong there, and I hate that...”

“Why...why would you ever feel that way? Am I not enough for you?”

“You are. You will always be. But I feel like I’ve been failing you. I feel like I came back damaged and it’s just been a fucking downhill slope that I keep sliding down and I can’t get back up...and then we came here and I don’t know, I suddenly didn’t feel like that. I felt like I brought you down here and that you were finally safe. We were finally safe.”

“Do you not want to fly again? Is that what this is about?”

“No I do...but I don’t know that I want to be deployed again. I am fucking terrified that I won’t come home...I’ve lost enough pilots, enough friends...when do I not come home, huh? And then what...I leave you and a kid without a husband and father? I can’t even bear the thought of that. It makes my chest hurt like hell, holy shit.”

“How do you become an Admiral then? Do you even still want that?”

“Yes. I do. And I don’t know. I don’t know. I don’t fucking know.” Jake’s voice trembled with his last words and then Sam’s free hand made it’s way to his chest, as she leaned slightly over the center of the truck.

“Jake. I love you more than anything. But you need to talk to me. You need to meet me halfway. You cannot keep these feelings you’re having from me. You can’t keep going to therapy and not talking there either. You need to let me all the way in. No matter how ugly the bottom of your soul is...you need to let me meet that part of you .” Sam’s voice trailed off and then she rubbed over the front of his chest, feeling his heart pounding like it was trying to jump right out of it. They let the silence fall over them, Jake trying to figure out exactly how to accomplish that without scaring her away. He couldn’t ever be without her again.

🌪️ 🛩️🛻⚓

Tyler sat quietly on the couch, Grits on the back as usual, and Jaycen sleeping soundly in his arms. He glanced down at Georgia, her head against his shoulder, her breath coming out leisurely. Pancake was laid across her lap, her arm over the dog’s back, and Waffles was on the arm next to Tyler, her snout as close as she could get to the little boy without disturbing him. 

“I already miss them.” Tyler murmured, taking a deep breath in and letting it out slowly, shakily.

“Me too. But we have this wonderful little boy to help keep us busy. Until the next time that they come back.” She said softly, rubbing Pancake’s shoulders. The dog sighed and furrowed her brows at Georgia, which made her smile. 

“Yeah. You’re right. And some other stuff to keep us busy too. Found a truck for Kate. We just gotta go look at it, make sure it’s okay.” He said, tilting his head as Jaycen shifted in his arms but did not wake.

“That’s good. She can stop trying to crash yours and Boone’s.” She said, which made a chuckle rumble up from Tyler’s chest.

“Yeah exactly. And we’ll plan a day to go look at a truck for you. I promise. I’m glad you got rid of the Denali though. I was afraid of you towing with it.” 

“When am I gonna be towing?” She asked, shifting against him so that she was slightly closer and Pancake did the same.

“Don’t know. Figured you might wanna take Tulsa to a couple places while you’re not pregnant.”

“Well...you mean before my belly gets big again.” She smirked.

“What?” Tyler shot a sly smile at her.

“I took a test this morning. I’m pregnant again, Ty.” Her lips turned up into a wide grin and Tyler carefully turned so that he could kiss her.

“Oh fuck. I’m gonna cry, darlin’.” His voice became a whisper.

“Well you had a hand in it, silly.”

“I know but you’re the one who’s doing all the work. I’m just the...well...y’know.”

“The very handsome stud?” Georgia raised a brow and smirked. Tyler's lips turned up again, his mouth dropping open.

“Well, darlin’, I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“You should. You’re quite the specimen.” She mused, making him chuckle and shake his head. His chest filled with warmth as he gazed at his beautiful wife and then down at his adorable son. He opened his mouth to speak but then stopped, wanting to enjoy the happiness that was overflowing in the air, within their little family of two legged and four legged creatures.

[sergeantsnowy]

Cold & Freeze

I see a lot of people say that Captain Cold is a copy/clone of Mr. Freeze, and while Captain Cold may be less known and beloved than Mr. Freeze, they are quite different characters. One of the few things they have in common is that they are both men who use ice to fight their respective superheroes.

My focus is to highlight the uniqueness of Captain Cold as a character, showcase the similarities they do have, and give a brief overview of their few interactions in media. Let’s break it down further below.

1. Which Came First: The Cold or The Freeze?

Captain Cold came first—so this immediately disputes every comment that says he is a copy of Mr. Freeze. As pictured above, I see this type of thing being said all the time. While it’s sad to see two wonderful characters being pinned against each other like this, it’s also a plain lie. Mr. Freeze (originally called Mr. Zero) made his first appearance in 1959, while Captain Cold debuted in 1957.

2. Backstories

Both of their backgrounds as characters are distinctive, with little to no overlap.

The story behind the Mr. Freeze that we know today didn’t come to be until 1992. The episode “Heart of Ice” from Batman: The Animated Series gave Freeze his tragic story with his wife, Nora. Working as a cryogenics scientist at GothCorp, he placed Nora in a cryogenic stasis machine after she got diagnosed with a terminal illness. His devastation quickly turned to determination, and he worked on finding a cure for his wife by using unauthorized funds from the company. Boyle, GothCorp’s CEO, demanded the experiments be ceased immediately despite the fact that it would end Nora’s life. A fight ensued, in which Freeze was pushed into cryonic chemicals and left unable to exist outside of sub-zero temperatures, having to wear a battle armored cyro-suit at all times.

Cold grew up as self-proclaimed “trailer trash.” His father was a cop who got injured and put on disability, while his mother is written as having died or abandoned the family due to his father’s violent and constant abuse. The only source of safety for Cold and his younger sister, Lisa, was their grandfather. An ice deliverer. His work truck, though chilly inside, became a refuge for the siblings. Cold was still young when his grandfather died, and in his late teen he left home, seeking to get away from the cruelty of his father. But he craved money and stability, so he fell into a life of petty crime before stealing the Cold Gun and becoming the Captain we know today.

3. Motivations

This is a big one for me. Their motives and goals as characters are entirely different.

Because of his terminally-ill wife, Freeze’s interests primarily lie in cryonics, and his goals are centered around saving her life. He is trying to find a cure for her, no matter the cost, no matter who else is hurt. In most cases, he actively wants to hurt those that have hurt Nora and himself. This creates his secondary motivation of revenge. For the most part, Freeze is portrayed as working alone and rarely forms alliances with other criminals. Instead, everything in Freeze’s life centers around Nora. Though ill-fated, his story is one of love.

Captain Cold’s motivations are far different than Freeze’s. They can be boiled down to getting rich, though he can also be revenge-focused. The reason he steals stems from life he’s had, which has never given him anything. It’s only beaten him down, just like his father has. Cold steals because he wants—almost needs—to live on his terms and feel in control of his life. And since the world won’t give him what he needs, he’ll just take it to support himself. He is almost always seen on a team, whether it be the Rogues, Legion of Doom, or Suicide Squad. With the Rogues in particular, the connection shared goes far deeper than simple teamwork and partnership, like it is in Freeze’s case. It’s family.

It could be argued that, in the New 52, these stories grow in similarity when Lisa (now Golden Glider) falls into a temporary coma. But, even then, Cold’s motivations in regard to this are on keeping her safe and helping her wake up, and not on finding a cure through his own research or ability.

4. Weapons of Zero

The Cold Gun and the Freeze Gun, in essence, are very similar. The biggest difference is that Freeze—who, as established, is primarily focused on cryonics—uses sub-zero weapons and Cold uses absolute zero and below.

But don’t take my word for it! Take Freeze’s.

Cold also has his own comments to add on the subject.

Cold’s gun freezes things on a molecular level, basically stopping/slowing time down, and it can also emit a cold field (which acts as a force field of cold air). Freeze’s gun is more chemically focused because it is made from stolen and repurposed medical equipment, and it often includes a freeze gas.

Similarities:

- Cold and Freeze each have a taste for revenge against those who have wronged them or the people they love, even if they have different primary goals.

- They both use being cold and aloof as a mechanism against pain and their own emotions. However, Freeze feels far more clinically detached from humanity than Cold is ever portrayed as feeling. Freeze is also more academically intelligent, while Cold is more strategic & street smart

Interactions:

Captain Cold and Mr. Freeze have been teamed together with other ice villains. Called the Ice Pack in a Super Friends comic, ice villain team ups including both Cold and Freeze have also appeared in Young Justice (2010), Superman/Batman: Public Enemies, Justice League Adventures #12, and Salvation Run. Cold and Freeze team up with just each other in Batman: Urban Legends #17, but Cold switches sides and eventually helps save Gotham city from Freeze’s plan.

In Flashpoint, Citizen Cold (who, in this universe, is a “hero” that fights against rogues and villains) kills Mr. Freeze. There is a quote from this run that isn’t seen in the panel below, where Cold thinks: “Freeze is a fool. He leads with his heart. I lead with my guns.” Though Flashpoint is a different timeline, this is still another example of how these two characters are different in action and mindset.

In DC Universe Online, Cold has a quote where he says, “No, I’m not Mr. Freeze.”

On DC’s website, the official character bio of Captain Cold says, “But whatever you do, don’t confuse him [Cold] with Batman baddie Mr. Freeze. He really hates that.”

Though they can fight against each other in Injustice 2, there are no interactions of particular note, unfortunately.

In my personal opinion, I think, despite Cold’s grouchy possessiveness of the ice gimmick, there’s a bit of mutual respect! Maybe begrudgingly so. Do I think they’d ever be friends? No. Is it fun to think about anyway? Yes.

[weatherman667]

Part XII - Food

Something near and dear to myself as a fat guy.

And something pretty much every historian gets wrong.

Well, how do I know history better than historians?

Historians only care about what was written down.

Archeology is a better source of food. Especially since archeologists will drink the bog mead and eat the tomb cheese.

People ate - everything - they could get their hands on. This limits the food to:

What is produced locally in the area.

What is either in season, preserved, or shelf stable.

What is not too expensive.

The too expensive is pretty easy, it's whatever was written down.

Here's a great example, 1950's.

People will often talk how terrible the food was. What was their source? Cook books. But, the reason it was in a cook book was that it wasn't a common recipe. People were more likely to eat meat + veggies + starch. How do you cook the meat? 350˚ oven, 1/2hr per pound.

What happened in the 1950's was a sudden influx of new ingredients, the creation of new technology, and things that were formerly only available to the rich suddenly became cheap enough to try. This is why they had all of the outlandish recipes, as the middle classes could now try these weird, rich things.

My mother, when she was growing up, learned to cook on a wood-fired oven.

The most common form for cooking in history as the hearth. The hearth consists of a flat rock that you build a fire on. You would normally surround it by stone or masonry to keep the fire contained. You either have a smoke hole in the roof, or just let it filter through the thatch. If the hearthstone is big enough, you build the house - around - it.

The reason why a pot for cooking shares the same root as pottery is that pots were originally ceramic. Ceramic is both a good insulator, and has a high heat capacity to hold in the heat. This makes it almost perfect for cooking on an open fire, keeping the temperature even. Metal pots and dutch ovens were a sign of wealth.

So, the choices for most people were in a pot over an open fire, or on a stick over and open fire, or suspended high above the open fire so it's mostly smoke and not heat.

Proper ovens were expensive, and so only found in cities, or among wealthy individuals, like bakers.

Corn when properly processed last forever, (as long as they are kept dry). Corn is the edible seeds from grasses, like wheat, barley, and oats in England. Rice and Maize also qualify.

Roots and tubers can last a year if kept it a cold, dry, dark place.

Vegetables are a different story, and often only last a single season, (or even much shorter time), if not pickled.

Meat has an extremely short shelf-life, unless cured, (salt) and smoked, in which case it lasts for almost ever.

And worst, fire. Without modern mechanisms, creating fire was extremely difficult. It was time consuming and taxing, and even if you do have modern lighters, it can still be time consuming and taxing. So, a lot of ancient civilizations would have someone who's job is firekeeper, (Dark Souls is about the primeval fear that the fire - might - go out). So, the fire was just kept going, forever. The Vestal Virgins of Rome were literally tasked with maintained the symbolic hearth of Rome.

All of those movies where they walk in and there's a fire in the background cooking a pot is... very accurate. Pots were often left on the stove for days, if not forever. And by forever, I mean

A batch of pot-au-feu was claimed by one writer to be maintained as a perpetual stew in Perpignan from the 15th century until World War II, when it ran out of ingredients to keep the stew going due to the German occupation.

--Wikipedia

And by foodsafe, as long as it is kept at 60˚F, which is barely simmering, it's perfectly safe to do this, forever.

As for bread, wheat was the goal of all civilization, and even then, the gluten in bread was dramatically increased in the US. So, while bread was common, but nowhere near as fluffy without the gluten. If they didn't have wheat, they would make something similar to pancake, which it seems like almost every single society has something similar.

Every family would have a grain ark. You would often have a larder, where meat was covered in fat for protection, (it effectively creates an air-proof barrier). Every family had a pig, as you could feed it food scraps, which it turns into pork. Some towns would have a municipal swineherd, who's job was to gather up the pigs and take them to the woods for foraging. The Roman standard, meaning the European standard when considering woodlands for tax purposes was how many pigs they could forage. Having a milk animals was the goal of most families. A calf can be bought for a few hundred, and it takes $20-ish dollars per day to feed. And they produced like 18L of milk per day. Chickens were typically not eaten, but kept for eggs. Or you can get a rope and a bucket and climb up/down a cliff to steal them from the birds that fish there. Wild game was freely available, until lords restricted it's use. You just had to hunt it and kill it, or pay a hunter to do it for you. Everyone with a square food of land had an herb/vegetable garden.

Most rent was paid in either work or grain, and the work was often to harvest the lord's own grain. If we take Grain as a general category, then it is the most common currency in Human history. Which is why it makes so much sense for Cybertronians to use Energon.

You Want to Make a Fantasy World: Part I - Magick

The first thing you need to decide when making a fantasy world is how magick works.

That might seem heady, but let's go over what you have to decide:

Who can use magick.

How do they use magick.

And how powerful can magick get.

Do you want 9th level magick, that can rip a giant hole in the world and summon unkillable monsters?

Because, honestly, you don't need it.

Can 9th level magick only be used by decrepid old wizards with one foot in their grave? Only it be used by chosen heroes? Only be by inhuman things, like Dragons and Daemons and Liches?

Low level but common magick can have a huge effect on the setting. Being able to light a fire can allow you to save the time and effort it takes to start a fire. Heating a rock can be used to heat a home, or even a bath, giving the equivalent of modern sanitation. Hand washing, bathing, and toilets have done the most for Human longevity. Can you go to a priest, give him a penny, and have him cure your cancer?

Sure, curing cancer isn't as cool as curing sword wounds, but the medical effects it can have on longevity are staggering.

Maybe magic is something that can only be done by a minority of the population, that dedicate themselves to the study.

None of them are wrong answers, so long as they are CONSISTENT.

If magickal ability depends on your bloodline, then someone, somewhere is going to think it's a good idea to selectively breed mages to keep the magics strong. The mages might become the noble classes, they might form their own class, which they breed endogenously, like Hindus.

If only inhuman things can cast upper level magick, and you see a seemingly ordinary Human cast that kind of magick, then guess what? He's not actually an ordinary Human.

Does magick need a physical catalyst? Does it consume reagents? How rare are these reagents? Do they come in one of a few types, or is every twig of berries a reagent for a different spell? Maybe upper level spells require expensive reagents, and that's the limiting factor? Maybe these spells use too much mana, and therefore can only be done by places of power?

Does teleportation require Line of Sight? Can you open long-range portals only if you have local knowledge? Can you target places of power from a distance?

We start with the simple, coarse questions, and get to the finer ones later on. When? When you come up with a good idea for how it works? Or, honestly, when you need to use it. It's perfectly fine to wait until the characters need/want to teleport to decide how it functions.

Another way to limit spells if by giving the heroes a rare magickal item. Why can they use portals?, because they have the Staff of the Herald. Why do they have the staff of the herald?

Given by someone important.

Monster loot.

They found it in an old, abandoned building.

They earned it by accomplishing some feat, or level of training.

Again, all you have to decide is how rare the item is, and maybe if you need some sort of innate/trained ability to use it.

[tricoufamily]

malcolm: my goals are beyond your understanding

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[spacegirlsgang]

DBD x Met Gala (3/4): Charles Rowland and Punk: Chaos to Couture (2013)