#expert-curated questions

[techminsolutions]

Unleashing Excellence: Hidden Potential Through CSC Olympiad 5.0: An In-Depth Guide

Introduction to CSC Olympiad CSC Academy, an esteemed educational organization, is renowned for its commitment to fostering academic competition and nurturing a competitive spirit among school children. By promoting education, digital literacy, and financial literacy, CSC Academy aims to prepare students for the rigorous demands of today’s highly competitive world. This comprehensive guide delves…

[ruewritesoccasionally]

I Spy | Terry Richmond

Pairing: Terry Richmond x Black reader

Warnings: Dark themes & explicit smut (18+) – dom/sub dynamics, power play, voyeurism kink, degradation kink, breeding kink, overstimulation, mutual masturbation, edging, rough sex, choking, spitting, hair pulling. Use of pet names (Daddy, Princess, Sweetheart, Baby, Good girl) and aftercare } Everything is consensual, but read at your own risk.

Summary: Terry Richmond is a protector—his wife’s safety, comfort, and pleasure are always his top priority. So, when he installed security cameras around their home, she thought nothing of it. That is, until one night, when her impatience gets the better of her, and Terry calls at just the right moment. How did he know what she was doing? More importantly—what is he going to do about it?

Word count: 3K

a/n: i fear i may never get sick of writing dark fics with terry 🤭🤭

The world saw Terry Richmond as a man of discipline, a protector, a security expert who made a living out of keeping people safe. His job required precision, foresight, and the ability to stay ten steps ahead of everyone else.

It was a skill set that bled into every aspect of his life—especially when it came to her.

To outsiders, he was the devoted husband, the kind of man who took care of everything so his wife didn’t have to. A provider, a leader, a steady hand to hold in a world that never stopped spinning. But behind closed doors? That carefully curated image cracked just enough to reveal something deeper, something darker.

Because Terry didn’t just protect—he controlled.

He never had to demand obedience, never had to force her submission. That wasn’t how their dynamic worked. He made sure she had everything she needed, took every burden off her shoulders, so all she ever had to do was be good for him. She was independent, of course, but not when it came to him. Not in the ways that mattered.

And she loved it.

Maybe she didn’t realise just how much, but Terry did.

The cameras in their home were supposed to be for protection. A necessary precaution—especially given his line of work. At least, that’s what he told her. And she never questioned it, never really thought about the way his eyes seemed to be on her at all times.

How he always knew things he shouldn’t.

How he’d casually mention the way she liked to stretch after a shower, in their bedroom, alone.

How he’d remind her to drink water, to take a break, even when he wasn’t home.

Little things. Tiny, insignificant moments that should’ve been easy to brush off.

And yet, every now and then, she’d jokingly accuse him of knowing everything.

And every single time, Terry would just smirk.

Terry was at work when the doorbell camera notification pinged on his phone. A routine check—he already knew who it was. His wife. Home.

He watched as she stepped inside, her shoulders sunken, bearing the weight of the day. His jaw tensed. Terry watched, letting his eyes track each motion, each flex of muscle, each quiet sigh as she exhaled the stress of the day. He made a mental note to stop by the store—flowers, wine, something to make her smile.

His eyes stayed locked on the screen as she moved through the house, each step methodical, shedding layers as she went. Bag down. Shoes off. Jewellery unfastened. Then, without pause, she stripped away the first layer of clothing and made a beeline for the shower.

A smirk played at his lips. Switching feeds.

Bedroom feed. Ensuite door left open. Perfect view.

Steam curled past the frame, misting over the lens, but not enough to block his view. After so many years together, she could still bring him to his knees, take his breath away like it was the first time. Stunning.

The water cascaded over her skin, gliding down the soft slope of her shoulders, rolling over her curves, tracing lines he had memorised by touch. Awe and jealousy twisted in his gut. Watching the way the droplets stroke along her body, touching places before he could, had his fingers flexing over his thigh.

She was relaxing now—he could see it in the way her muscles unwound, the tension draining from her limbs with the rising steam. And then…

Her hands started to wander.

Innocent at first—dragging over the length of her arms, fingertips gracing her collarbones, down her chest, ghosting over the peaks of her nipples, following the curve of her waist, down the expanse of her thighs to the soft heat nestled between them.

Terry’s trance faltered. His breath stilled.

Would she?

His jaw flexed as he watched her fingers tease at her entrance, skimming the sensitive flesh - a mere whisper of a touch.

But then as if she knew, as if she felt his eyes on her through the lens her fingers halted.

Just like that, she continued the rest of her shower.

Terry exhaled slowly, heat curling in his gut. Good girl.

He would definitely reward her tonight.

Terry watched as she left the shower, her skin glistening and soft, her routine precise and practiced. His fingers itched to replace the ones that gently massaged the oil into her body, but there was a soft warmth he felt in seeing her more relaxed now—more content than she had been when she first walked through the door. His shift was nearly over, and though he had done his best to be patient, the pressure in his trousers told him how badly he wanted her. He couldn’t wait. Not with the way his dick was fighting against the fabric.

He saw her stretch out on the bed, melting into the soft sheets, her expression a mix of contemplation and need—something that made Terry pause, unable to fully read her through the tiny screen. He wondered what thoughts had crept into her mind, but that question was quickly answered. She parted her thighs, giving in to the pressure he couldn’t see but always felt. The same motion she had started in the shower, now continuing in the sanctuary of their bed.

All thoughts of reward and praise left his mind in that instant. This... this was a challenge. And a betrayal. And he wasn’t going to let it slide. Not with the way she had been so damn careless.

He kept his focus on the live feed, watching, unable to tear his gaze away from her as she touched herself. He wanted to reach through the screen, stop her, punish her. Instead, he called her.

The frustration was evident on her face as his call interrupted her, the satisfaction on her features faltering. But then she recognised the name on the screen, and a soft smile replaced her frustration. She thought it was a casual check-in, a harmless conversation with her husband. But Terry wasn’t here for pleasantries anymore.

He teased her at first, coaxing her into comfort, his voice soft, like he hadn’t just watched her betray him in their own home.

“How’s my girl doing?” he asked, his tone deceptively casual. “What’s on your mind?”

She responded, her voice softer now, already losing some of the tension she had held when he first interrupted her. Terry let her settle into the illusion of normalcy.

But he couldn’t help himself. His gaze hardened. The possessiveness that surged through him made his next words come out sharp, laced with that commanding tone she knew all too well.

“Are you enjoying touching what’s mine, my love?” he asked, the heat of his voice sending a ripple through her. “Too greedy to wait until I get home?”

Her breath hitched at his words, a flicker of shame— or was it excitement?—crossing her face as her mind caught up with her actions.

“Don’t worry, sweetheart,” Terry continued, his voice lowering, predatory. “I have something to fix that impatience.”

With that, he cut the call, a smirk playing at the corners of his lips. He wasn’t done. Not by a long shot.

She sat up, dumbfounded, her mind reeling as she pieced things together. How did he know what she was doing? He always had a sixth sense about everything, from the mundane to the extreme. She used to joke that he had eyes at the back of his head or that there were cameras everywhere—but maybe that wasn’t just a joke anymore.

All she could do now was wait. Wait and see what was in store.

Terry came home, taking his time. He barely acknowledged her presence as he entered their bedroom, heading straight into the en-suite. If she didn’t know any better, she might’ve thought he was angry with her. But she knew better. She knew how much he loved her—too much to ever stay angry for long. No, this wasn’t about anger. This was about something else. Disobedience. That’s what he couldn’t tolerate.

She squirmed uncomfortably on the bed, her anticipation rising as she waited for him to finish his shower. Right on cue, he emerged, dressed in nothing but a towel. The sight of him—drenched, glistening, and radiating confidence—took her breath away. She couldn’t help but drink him in, her gaze lingering on the defined muscles of his chest, the water still clinging to his skin. They were both greedy, in a way. Him for being so impossibly handsome, and her for having him all to herself. That was exactly how she liked it.

His voice broke her idle reverie, smooth and knowing, a smirk playing at the corners of his lips, as if he could read her thoughts. "So, do you have anything to say for yourself?" he asked, the mockery clear in his tone.

She knew there was no good answer, no way to make it right, so she chose to stay silent. Her heart raced. Her pulse quickened. She waited for him to make his move.

He tilted his head, his eyes darkening with that signature dominance of his. "No? That’s fine. I did say I have a cure for your impatience." His voice dropped lower, a dangerous edge to it now. "You have a scratch to itch? That’s fine, sweetheart. You’re going to do just that. Here. Now. Until I say stop."

She held her breath, his words settling into the heavy air between them. "And since you’ve taken on that silent streak, I’ll take it as a yes. Not that you would ever say no to Daddy."

Terry's control was absolute. He dragged the chair from the vanity, positioning it at the foot of the bed, where he had the perfect view of her centre. His gaze flicked between her, observing every response she gave him—her parted lips, chest rising and falling with each breath, the curl of her toes. He ignored her pleas, focused instead on the sight of her slowly falling apart in front of him.

The thrill of the moment wasn’t enough for him to rush. He slowly stroked himself, his fist working over his length with an even pace. He was in no hurry. Watching her unfold, helpless to stop her own reactions, was enough.

Her attention shifted when she heard a low groan pass from his lips. She blinked, eyes drawn to the bead of pre-cum that pooled at the tip of his cock, a perfect drop dribbling down the shaft. His balls rested heavy on his thighs, and their eyes locked—an unspoken understanding between them, the tension palpable. The game was his, and he played it to perfection.

Terry’s voice broke the silence, a playful yet possessive tone dripping from each word. "You wanna watch, don’t you, baby? See what you can’t have until I decide."

Her breath quickened, and her chest heaved as she clenched the sheets tighter. The sound of his voice, mixed with the image of him touching himself so slowly, made her insides ache. She could feel her orgasm building, every inch of her body begging to release. But Terry wasn’t finished with her yet.

When she tried to stop, thinking she could control the situation, he halted her attempt with a firm command. “Now, I know I might be asking a lot from that pretty head of yours, but until you hear me say stop, you don’t.”

He moved to her side, kneeling between her legs, his gaze soft yet dark. Her pulse quickened as the reality of what was about to unfold hit her. She had no idea what he was planning, but she knew it wouldn’t be gentle.

Her climax was building, more intense now with his eyes on her, the thrill of being watched making it so much more unbearable.

Terry’s hand gripped her jaw, tilting her head back as he stared into her eyes. Her breath hitched, the air thick with the weight of his control. She was trembling, the effects of his teasing leaving her both desperate and afraid of what was to come next. He hadn’t given her permission to speak, but her lips parted nonetheless, desperate for something—anything—to release the pressure that had built inside her.

Her hands gripped the sheets beneath her, her body fighting the urge to writhe under his touch. She knew he wouldn’t let her go until he’d fully reminded her who was in charge.

Terry’s smirk deepened, watching her struggle with the flood of sensations. "Good girls don’t beg, sweetheart. But you? You’ve been nothing but greedy. You’re gonna finish what you started, and you’re gonna do it right. Under my control. Understand?"

Her body was still, her eyes pleading with him, but no words left her lips. It wasn’t that she couldn’t speak—it was that she didn’t need to. He knew.

"Perfect," he murmured, his fingers moving down her body to stroke her folds, his touch slow and deliberate. She gasped, unable to hold back the soft sounds as he teased her. His other hand, still holding her jaw, forced her to keep her eyes on him, keeping her attention firmly on his every movement.

His eyes never left hers as he slid his hand back down to her body, his thumb circling her clit with torturous slowness. The sensation was overwhelming, but his control was absolute. Every inch of her body screamed to come undone, but he was in charge.

Her breaths came in shallow gasps, her skin slick with sweat as the pressure inside her built higher. She couldn’t hold it anymore. Her orgasm threatened to tear through her, but just as she reached the brink, he pulled away, a deep chuckle escaping his lips as he watched her squirm in frustration.

“Now, Princess,” he purred, his voice dripping with that predatory tone she knew all too well. “I’m not sure which I want first—a thank you or an apology?”

Confusion flickered across her face, and he smirked, knowing she hadn’t quite grasped his intentions. “Now you know I take care of you in every way I can, and I do a damn good job at it too,” he continued, his eyes darkening with the hint of a challenge. “So why’d you think it was a good idea to take that from me, huh?”

Her head spun, but his words cut through the haze, her body reacting before she could form any sort of coherent thought. The sharp bite of his dominance pierced through her, the sting of humiliation mingling with her need. Her face flushed, the power dynamic flipping in an instant.

Terry moved to her side, pulling her legs wide as he positioned himself between them. His voice dropped, commanding her attention. "It's time to remind you who you belong to."

His hands slid over her body, his grip firm and possessive. He didn’t give her a chance to protest, pulling her into his lap as he thrust inside her, every movement rough and deliberate. She moaned loudly, the feel of him filling her driving her wild with need.

"Don’t forget who owns this," he growled, thrusting deeper, harder. "You’re mine, and don’t you dare forget it."

His thrusts were relentless, punishing in their intensity. He filled her, the connection between them now absolute. As he fucked her harder, faster, he pulled her hair back, forcing her to look him in the eyes as he claimed her fully.

“Don’t fight it,” he commanded, his breath ragged. “You’re mine, baby. Always.”

As the aftershocks of their climax rippled through her, Terry didn’t let go of her right away. His hand moved to her face, brushing away the strands of hair that clung to her skin, his touch gentle despite the fierceness that had just passed between them. She could feel the weight of his gaze on her, soft but unwavering, as he cupped her cheek in his large palm.

"You're okay," he murmured, his thumb tracing the curve of her jaw, soothing her with each pass. His voice was no longer rough with dominance, but warm with the comfort she desperately needed. His presence grounded her, reminded her that she was safe. She nodded slowly, her breath still unsteady, but his words had calmed the storm inside her.

He pulled her closer, guiding her to rest her head on his chest, the steady beat of his heart beneath her ear lulling her into a sense of calm. She breathed deeply, trying to steady her pulse, his hands gently massaging her back, easing the tension out of her.

“You did so good for me, baby,” he whispered, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. "You always do. But listen to me now, alright?"

She blinked, nodding against his chest, eyes fluttering closed as she waited for his next words. His voice was softer now, but still commanding in its way, holding her attention like a tether.

"When you're out in the world, you can do all the thinking you like," he said, his voice deep and steady, "but at home, with me? You switch your brain off. You listen, and you let me lead. No questioning, no second-guessing. Just trust."

The words settled in her chest, warm and reassuring. There was no shame, no hesitation—just his quiet certainty that she belonged with him, and he would always take care of her.

Her hand found his, threading their fingers together, and she squeezed, the gesture simple but full of meaning. He pressed a kiss to her forehead, before lifting her chin to meet his gaze.

"Do you understand, princess?"

Her lips parted, a soft smile tugging at her mouth, her heart swelling with gratitude and something deeper, something all-consuming. “Yes, Daddy. I understand.”

Terry’s smile was soft, approving, as he brushed a final lock of hair from her face, his thumb grazing her lower lip. He leaned in to kiss her, slow and lingering, as though they had all the time in the world.

“You’re mine,” he murmured against her lips, the words a vow, a promise. “And that’s never gonna change.”

She melted into the kiss, content in the certainty of his love and control, knowing that no matter what the world outside brought, at least here, with him, she was safe. Always.

taglist: @writingsbytee @venusincleo @nickidub718 @notapradagurl7 @theogbadbitch @ms-mosley-ifunastyyy @wildcardmelaninfreak

comments and reblogs are appreciated as well as feedback, i hope you liked it 🫶🏾🫶🏾🫶🏾

[itsnotyouithink]

AFRAID

SUMMARY: You, the star of the Blackmore University basketball team, is failing the easiest class at the university: Film Studies 101. The only person who can help you pass? Tara Carpenter, the girl who hates you no matter what you do.

PAIRING: tara carpenter x fem!reader

WARNINGS: TBD, underage drinking, smoking, mature language, mentions of verbal abuse, violence, gore, ghostface shit

WORD COUNT: 2.3k

part one | part two |

A/N: been forever since i’ve written so bare w me, ok! also, i hate calculus & math in general so whatever i said abt math in here is a complete lie

———

———

Every Division One basketball team had thee player.

UCONN had Paige Bueckers, the University of Iowa had Caitlin Clark, and Blackmore University had you. You—cocky, sweet, competitive, and overwhelmingly perfect, you.

So, of course Tara Carpenter knew who you were—it was practically shoved down her throat. The countless posters of you playing basketball hung on banners around the school, or how someone would always ask about you during one of the tours she would lead as a Blackmore Student Ambassador. It was constant; what're you like? What do you do on your free time? Are you actually that hot in person?

She would put on her fake smile and count the minutes until the tour was over, reminding herself over and over again that the amount of money she was being paid for this would be worth it. New York City was not cheap.

Even at countless parties, some Film Studies 101 classes, hallway passes while you were talking with Mindy about something, or in one of the campuses cafeteria, you and Tara had never interacted before. You and Chad certainly have, though.

During your first week at Blackmore after transferring from a college in sunny California, you met the broad-shouldered boy at a frat party. Everyone was crowding around you, asking you questions about yourself and ogling at the idea of you being their college's saving grace.

Chad's lingering eyes boarder-lined on staring. Tara would make a comment or two about how obsessed he was with you. Scoffing at the way his eyes would travel from your half-up half-down hairstyle and end up targeting the small drop of sweat making its way down the left side of your neck. He knew where the droplet was going, and much like everyone else in the city, he wanted a peek as well. His twin-sister, Mindy, would hit his shoulder claiming, "Stop staring at my new friend, perv. You'll scare her away."

He would just scoff and roll his eyes, eagerly heading towards another game of beer-pong. Tara never understood the hype surrounding you... I mean, sure, you had insane biceps from the constant training, a curvy figure, borderline enchanting eyes, a great… rack and one of the only chances Blackmore had at a National Championship. But other than that, she had no idea why so many people loved you. If anything, why didn't they hate you?

You were naturally cocky both on-and-off the court, always having a sarcastic comment to add in times where silence was the best bandaid. She figured your occasional sweetness was just an act—curated by a PR team or something. Tara expected a lot from you; fakeness, bitchy-ness, and most importantly, that self-absorbed egotistical mindset athletes tended to have. But, something she never would've expected?

You were failing Film Studies 101.

The introduction course to movies and television. You were failing! In Tara's expert opinion, Film Studies 101 was literally the easiest class you could take, so how could you be failing it?

You didn't take academics very seriously, the only reason you had the desire to attend college was because of the sports opportunities within. Blackmore University was known for their basketball program, even if it hasn't won a championship since 1976. It was the college your father had attended a few decades ago and the place your mother almost attended—before getting accepted into Princeton University. The school had played a large part in your childhood: always wearing the merchandise during game days, naming an old pet after the mascot, or even having a signed jersey by one of the star players.

But you never wanted to go because it was a great school, you wanted to go because of the basketball team. Achieving your childhood dreams was a championship ring away—if you could bring the "losingest" team in the East to the Finals, everyone would want you!

But no one would want you if you weren't even on the team anymore, kicked off the roster curtesy of the potent D- on your report card. I mean, you barely showed up to class anymore.

So, you received a tutor whether you liked it or not. Your tutor? Tara Carpenter, naturally.

You knew the name Tara Carpenter, but you didn't know her. You knew she was Mindy's friend from back home, you knew she was the girl always raising her hand during class (the classes you attended, at least), and you knew she was a major film nerd. Like, major. You often saw her and Mindy arguing in one of the school's cafeterias over a new horror movie that had just been released, always ending with the raven-haired girl rolling her eyes.

But other than that, you barely knew her!

“You’re late.” She didn’t even look up from the North by Northwest screenplay in her hands as you stood in front of her corner table at a small café, a student favorite for the best coffee in a ten-block radius. “Very late.”

“I’m not that late.” You lightly scoffed before setting your school bag down on the floor next to your chair across from her. “I’m only… oh, twenty-minutes late.”

The raven-haired girl still had her gaze focused on the words in front of her, paying no mind to the elite basketball player in front of her. You cleared your throat, the slight awkwardness of the situation beginning to get to you. You were never a girl of punctuality, always either too early or way too late. In regard to things you barely cared about, you just chose to never show up. An example: Film Studies 101.

She closed the screenplay and placed it in front of her before making direct eye contact with you. You were a strong competitor, playing against the future of the industry as a hobby and a future career. But by this small interaction alone, you quickly realize there was no gaze sharper than Tara Carpenter’s. Your hands began to get clammy just by the sudden eye contact. “If I’m going to help you, don’t waste my time.”

“Got better things to do, Carpenter?” You tilted your head with ease, your small hoop earrings moving with the motion.

“Much better things.” She scoffed before looking at the blank space in front of you. “Did you bring your screenplay and notes from class?”

You furrowed your brows in confusion, “Screenplay? Notes from class?”

She sighed in disappointment and mild annoyance, “Yes. The North by Northwest screenplay we received in class last week and your notes from the previous classes.” She slammed her hand in a fit of irritation on her copy of the book. “This. Do you have this?”

You stared at her blankly before blinking down at your almost empty backpack, the Y/N Y/L next to your number in bold practically mocked you for your cluelessness and stupidity. “Uh, yeah, of course I have it with me. Take it everywhere with me because why not.” You sarcastically laughed before reaching into the space of your bag, finding the only book in there.

The North by Northwest screenplay. Thank fuck.

“Great, but you don’t have any of your notes with you, do you?”

You tilted your head with a strained smile, “I think even having the screenplay with me is a win for both of us.”

Tara took a deep breath before opening her notebook, “Okay, it’s fine. Just bring it with you next time, okay?”

“Got it.” You nodded with a small salute which would be half-charming to anyone else, but with Tara, it felt like she hated you just for existing. You’ve never had anyone outwardly hate you in person. Sure, there were some rude supporters in high school during away games but people usually loved you, idolized you even. And to be fair, you were from a small town in Maine where everyone knew everyone, but even at that point in your life you were getting national recognition for your talent.

By the time you zoned back into Tara trying to explain the ways directors utilize camera angles to evoke emotion, the hour study session was basically over—well, the forty-five minutes were over—and Tara was just annoyed and dissatisfied.

“You didn’t listen to a thing I said, didn’t you?” She leaned her chin against the palm of her propped up hand with a squint of her eyes. You shook your head, “No, no, I listened.”

“Oh, yeah?” She sat-up straighter in her chair with a small smirk. This suddenly felt like a competition. “Name three of the ways I explained how directors utilize camera angles to evoke emotion from an audience. Hell, if you can name two, I’ll buy you a coffee myself.”

“Buy me a coffee?” You giggled, “Sounds like you’re turning this into a date. Look, if you wanted me that bad, you could’ve just asked, Tara.”

She scoffed, her playful demeanor changing into a look of pure disgust, “You’re disgusting and I should’ve never taken this offer.”

Your face dropped, a sudden level of panic creeping up on you. Whether you liked it or not, you needed this. Without her, you can kiss your dreams to the league goodbye and welcome the bold D- with open arms. You needed her... yuck.“No, no, wait, I was just joking!” You leapt up as she stood up to pack her stuff away, the different array of film textbooks and analyses piling into her small book bag.

“You are exactly what I thought you would be.” She shook her head with a scoff, “Mindy told me you were different, but honestly, you are just.. gross.”

“What? I was just joking!”

“No, this is exactly how it starts.” She shook her head before putting the last of her books in her bag, throwing it over her shoulder without a bit of haste. “You stupid athletes. You joke around and then you flirt a little and then you end up thinking you have a chance with me, expecting me to what? Open my legs for you or something?”

The two of you stood in front of each other, Tara furious while you’re anxious. The rings on your fingers growing hot by every twist and fiddle. “Uh, that’s not what I’m doing at all, Tara. And, um, I like guys.”

Her shoulders sagged while her face changed to look of confusion, “You do?”

“Well, like, kind of.” You shrugged before putting your hands up in surrender, “That’s not the point, but either way, I’m not that type of person. Believe it or not, I really need this. If I don’t pass this class, they’re kicking me off the team.”

She tilted her head, “They can do that? I thought you were too talented or… whatever.”

“They have to hold some type of standard.” You glanced around you at the quiet cafe, the students around you busy preparing for upcoming projects and assignments with no care in the world for the minor argument the two of you were having upon first meeting one another. “I’m sorry. Next time I’ll show up prepared. I’ll have the screenplay, the notes, everything you need me to have, I’ll bring.”

She sighed, silently debating with herself. “You promise you’ll take this seriously? No zoning out, no missing materials, and no lateness. Got it?”

You nodded enthusiastically, throwing your pinkie between the two of you for a pinkie promise, “I promise… as long as you promise not to yell at me again.”

Tara laughed breathlessly as if it were a joke, a small smile cracking between the cold exterior she displayed beforehand until she saw your serious expression. You weren’t a fan of people yelling at you, which was a bit ironic considering the thousands of people yelling at you while you play in stadiums every Friday night. “Oh, you’re serious?”

“Yes, I’m serious.”

“I would hardly consider the volume of my voice before yelling. More like, loudly expressed.”

“So, yelling?”

“Well, no—”

“Promise. Yes or no? You need this tutor-ship just as much as I do. New York City isn’t cheap.” You smugly answered. The two of you had formally met not even forty-five minutes ago and the banter was already flowing. Mindy would die if she found out.

Tara rolled her eyes with a scoff, entangled her pinkie with yours in a quick promise. “Yes, I promise.”

You smiled at her before putting your screenplay back into your half-empty backpack. You heard Tara sigh before she spoke, “I’ll see you on Wednesday at three-thirty sharp. Not three-thirty one or three-thirty two. Three-thirty, okay?”

“Yes, yes, I get it.” You nod, “Three-thirty.”

“Great.” She nodded back as well, her lips tense in the sudden change of slight awkwardness that occurs when you have to say goodbye to someone you barely know. “I’ll see you soon, then.”

“Yep, bye, Tara.” And just like that, the two of you separated paths as you lived on the other end of the campus. When you get back to your small dorm, the poster of Spiderman and a few post-cards from your mother stare back at you blankly. You throw your bag down next to your clattered desk, a desk overwhelmed with extra math problems you do for fun.

Yes, for fun. Because even if Tara Carpenter thinks you’re dumber than a fucking rock, doesn’t mean you actually are. You find the fun in math equations, where everything has a set answer and a set of rules to follow. Film, however, didn’t have a few set rules, no, it’s an art where creativity has no barriers. You could just never understand it—the power of filmmaking and real cinema.

So, instead, you confided creativity—literally.

You kept the screenplay in your bookbag until Wednesday, the day you had to be tutored by Tara Carpenter. Again.

And you, of course, arrived fifteen minutes late. Again.

[deliciousangelfestival]

Change of Heart - 1 | Bucky

Character: Bucky x Female! Reader

Theme: Angst, tragedy, romance.

Summary: The interviewer asked her a provocative question:

“If you were offered a million dollars, would you leave your partner?”

Without hesitation, she replied with a smirk, “Give me one dollar, and I’ll leave him this second.”

True to her word, she walked away, leaving the man stunned and searching for answers. Now, he’s desperately trying to find her, grappling with the haunting question—why would she leave him so easily?

And is there more to her departure than a single dollar could ever explain?

Part 1 , Part 2 , Part 3 , Part 4 , Part 5.

Main Masterlist || If you enjoy my work, please consider buying me a coffee on Ko-fi 🙏🏻

By the way, I publish my book Arrogant Ex-Husband and Dad, I Can't Let You Go by Alina C. Bing on Kindle.

Thank you to everyone who has read this chapter. Leave a comment and Reblog, please. I'd love to hear your thoughts. ❤️

Time changes everything. Interviews used to take place indoors, in studios, or in booked hotel rooms. The questions were serious—focused on economics, politics, or other weighty topics. Back then, only experts or public figures were deemed worthy of being interviewed.

But now, thanks to social media, interviews can happen anywhere. They’re no longer the domain of reporters or TV stations. Instead, anyone with a phone, a camera, and a microphone can conduct an impromptu interview in random places.

These spontaneous interviews often gain far more attention than their polished, scripted counterparts on TV. On the streets, people are asked silly, lighthearted questions, and their candid, often hilarious answers resonate more with viewers. They feel authentic and relatable, unlike the carefully curated responses of experts.

Some people never imagine their offhand comments will make them go viral. Take the girl who became famous overnight for her absurd response to a random question—she jokingly told someone to spit. It was ridiculous, but human nature is unpredictable. The absurdity drew millions of viewers, and just like that, she became an internet sensation.

Today, another viral moment is taking over the internet. The current trend? A simple, loaded question:

“If you were offered 1 million dollars, would you leave your partner?”

Many people, interviewed alongside their partners, responded with sweet or heartfelt answers. But one woman gave a response that stopped everyone in their tracks:

“Give me 1 dollar. I’ll leave him this second.”

And the interviewer handed her the one dollar.

Her comment sparked chaos online. Most people laughed, seeing it as a joke and sharing it for its sheer absurdity:

“LMAO, this girl is my spirit animal!”

“She’s not wrong, though. 😂 Relationships are overrated!”

“The audacity! 😂😂😂”

However, not everyone found it funny:

“This is what’s wrong with society—no loyalty anymore.”

“Imagine being her partner and seeing this. Yikes.”

“If this is how people think these days, I’ll stay single forever.”

But there was one man who didn’t find it amusing at all.

He replayed the video, his expression unreadable, though the tension in his jaw betrayed his anger. The room was silent except for the faint hum of his phone’s speaker. His piercing gaze flicked to the woman sitting across from him as the video looped again.

Bucky Barnes hadn’t paid attention to what was happening online. As the CEO of the Lena Group, a leader in car and chip manufacturing, his schedule left little time for distractions. It wasn’t until his secretary and his mother mentioned the viral uproar that he decided to investigate.

Watching the clip now, he felt a surge of disbelief. Shock. Anger. He had worked tirelessly to build his empire, and yet here she was, casually dismissing him with a joke to a stranger.

“So,” he said, his voice cold as he set the phone down on the table, “you think I’m worth one dollar?”

She didn’t flinch under his icy glare. Instead, she calmly lifted her teacup, taking a slow sip before setting it back down. Her movements were measured, deliberate, as if his words carried no weight.

Meeting his gaze, she tilted her head slightly, a faint smirk tugging at her lips. “Now that I think about it,” she said, her tone casual, “70% discount sounds fair.”

His grip on the phone tightened, his knuckles turning white. “What’s the meaning of this?” he demanded, leaning forward, his voice sharper now.

Her expression didn’t waver. “Isn’t it obvious? I’m tired, Bucky. I’ve had enough.”

The room felt heavier, the unspoken words between them thickening the air.

His jaw clenched as he let out a heavy sigh. “You’ve got to be joking.”

His eyes searched your face for any hint of humor, anything to suggest you didn’t mean it. But there was none. Only calm resolve.

He looked at you—the woman he had married two years ago. The truth was, this wasn’t an ordinary marriage. It was what people called a contract marriage. But to Bucky, it was just business. Marriages forged to benefit two businesses had existed for ages, after all.

The so-called marriage contract was simply a guideline—a formal agreement to ensure both parties understood the terms, what was acceptable and what wasn’t. Many people chose contract durations of three or six years before going their separate ways. But Bucky had kept it simpler: a one-year contract, renewable if his wife agreed.

The reason he opted for this arrangement was to avoid the casualties of love. He’d seen it firsthand—his parents, who had started with love, had eventually torn each other apart, not literally, but close enough to leave scars on everyone involved. It was enough to make Bucky swear off traditional marriage altogether.

But his grandfather had other plans. “If you don’t marry, you’ll never inherit the company,” his grandfather had declared, determined to ensure his legacy stayed within the family. Having watched his son—a serial adulterer—destroy the family’s reputation, the old man had become obsessed with the idea of keeping his grandson grounded.

Bucky, however, had no interest in marriage. He had no desire for emotional entanglements or the drama that came with them. Yet his grandfather’s ultimatum left him with no choice. If he wanted to lead the company, he had to marry.

That was when he turned to a matchmaker agency, one well-known among his wealthy peers. It wasn’t cheap, but the agency had stellar testimonials, and they assured him they could find the perfect partner.

And they did.

That’s where he met you. You, too, were looking for something unconventional. You weren’t interested in traditional marriage and came from a good family background, which made introducing you to his parents remarkably easy. Despite his parents’ separation, you navigated the introductions with grace, impressing his mother and, surprisingly, his father.

The wedding happened quickly. You were the ideal partner—easygoing, understanding, and undemanding. When the first year of the contract ended, Bucky asked if you wanted to continue. You had simply smiled and said, “Yes.”

To him, that was enough.

Two years had passed since then, and he thought everything was fine. You never complained, never asked for anything more than the life you had agreed upon. He thought you were content. He thought you were okay.

But now, standing before you on the last day of the contract, he couldn’t reconcile the image he had of your quiet satisfaction with your answer in that viral video.

He stared at you, confused and hurt. “Why did you say it?” he asked, his voice quieter now, almost pleading. “Why give that answer? I thought everything was fine.”

You didn’t flinch. Instead, you glanced at your watch, casually checking the time. “I’m not,” you said, your voice calm, almost detached. “At 12 a.m., our marriage contract will be over. By tomorrow morning, I won’t be here.”

His mouth opened as if to protest, but no words came out. He reached for the black tea you had placed in front of him earlier, taking a sip. It had gone lukewarm—neither hot nor cold, a temperature he despised. It mirrored the hollow, uncomfortable feeling gnawing at his chest.

Finally, he set the cup down with a dull clink. “We’ll talk tomorrow,” he said, his voice firmer now, though tinged with weariness.

You said nothing in return, merely turned and walked away.

🌸🌸🌸🌸

The next morning, when he woke up, sunlight was already streaming through the curtains. His eyes flicked to the clock on his nightstand—10 a.m. He sat up abruptly, his head spinning slightly from the sudden movement.

He rarely ever slept this late. For years, he had trained himself to wake by 5 a.m., no matter how little sleep he’d had the night before. Even on his most exhausting days, he never overslept. At most, he might sleep in until 6 or 7 a.m., but 10? Never.

Rubbing his temples, he tried to piece it together. What had made him sleep like this? He thought back to the night before, to your calm words, to the tea…

His hands froze mid-motion. The tea.

A surge of realization hit him. You drugged him.

He swung his legs out of bed, his movements sharp and full of urgency. Throwing on a robe, he stormed out of the bedroom, his voice cutting through the quiet house. “Where is she?”

The housemaid appeared, her expression hesitant and unsure. “She left, sir. Early this morning.”

His jaw tightened as he ran a hand through his hair in frustration. “And she didn’t say anything? Not a word?”

The maid paused, then held out a small item. “She left this, sir.”

He grabbed the velvet box from her hand, his chest tightening as he opened it. His breath caught at the sight of your wedding ring nestled inside.

For two years, he had worn his own wedding ring daily, thinking of it as nothing more than a piece of jewelry. But now, staring at your ring, it felt heavier than it should, as though it carried the weight of your departure.

Inside the ring box, you left the same crumpled dollar bill. It sat there like a cruel punchline, mocking everything he thought both of you had built together—a final, silent reminder of just how little she thought he was worth.

He set the box down on the table, his eyes scanning the room. When they landed on the wardrobe, he froze. It was still full. You hadn’t taken a single thing.

His mind raced. Where could you have gone? How did you vanish so quickly?

He reached for his phone, dialing his security team with shaky fingers. After two rings, someone picked up.

“Where is she?” he barked, his voice tight with frustration, the tension unmistakable.

The security officer on the other end hesitated. “Mrs. told us… madam wanted to meet her.”

His brows furrowed. “My mother?”

“Yes, sir. She’s in another state.”

That meant only one thing. You had gone to the airport.

“Did she take the private jet or a commercial plane?” he demanded.

“Commercial, sir. It was a last-minute trip, and we hadn’t prepared the jet.”

Bucky’s grip on the phone tightened, his knuckles whitening. His jaw clenched as frustration surged within him. He wanted to scream, to lash out at the sheer incompetence of his team. You fucking idiot. The words pounded in his mind, but he bit them back, forcing himself to stay composed.

“Who bought the ticket?” he asked, his voice low and dangerous.

“It was Mrs. who purchased the ticket herself.”

Bucky exhaled sharply through his nose, his patience wearing thin. He wanted nothing more than to explode, but he kept his voice steady. “Find out where she went.” Without waiting for a response, he ended the call.

Immediately, he dialed his mother. The line connected after a single ring.

“Hello.”

“I’m glad you called,” she said briskly. “Do you know what’s going on right now?”

His grip on the phone tightened. “Did you ask her to meet you?”

“Me? No, I—”

He ended the call before she could finish. That ruled out her involvement.

His mind raced as he considered the possibilities. If you had boarded a plane, he could easily track your destination. But the other option loomed: that the airport was a decoy. You had used his mother’s name as an excuse, ensuring your movements would go undetected by his security team, who clearly hadn’t been following you as closely as they did him.

Bucky’s phone buzzed. The confirmation from his team came through, and the news made his blood boil.

“Mrs. bought a plane ticket but didn’t get on the plane,” the head of security reported.

“Did you check the surveillance cameras?” he snapped.

“Yes, sir. We’ve reviewed the footage. There’s a woman with a similar appearance to madam who rented a car at the airport.”

Bucky pinched the bridge of his nose, his frustration mounting. He sucked in a breath, exhaling slowly to keep his temper in check. So, it’s option two. You’re still in the same state.

“Great,” he muttered under his breath, pacing the room. He could feel the tension radiating through his body. “At least you didn’t go far.”

Without wasting another second, he barked into the phone, “Chase the car. Check every schedule she might have left behind, and contact her friends. I want updates—fast.”

Ending the call, he threw the phone onto his desk with a sharp clatter. Running a hand through his hair, he leaned against the desk, staring out the window as the weight of the situation pressed down on him. For someone who always had the upper hand, this was new territory. And he hated it.

Bucky sat in his office chair, staring at the empty ring box on his desk. His mind swirled with unanswered questions. Why had you suddenly left without a word? Both of you had been such a good team—practical, efficient, and untroubled by the complications that plagued most marriages. At least, that’s what he thought.

If he could, he would turn back time and relive the past few months, examining every moment you’d spent together. Had he missed something? Made a mistake? Or had something happened that he was completely unaware of? The uncertainty gnawed at him, a feeling he hadn’t experienced in years.

His phone buzzed, snapping him out of his thoughts.

“We found her. But…”

“What?!” he barked, standing abruptly.

“It’s not Mrs.,” the security team clarified hesitantly.

A chill ran down his spine. “Then who is it?”

“It’s her friend, sir.”

His stomach tightened, and for the first time in years, Bucky felt a flicker of fear. He thought he was closing in, that you were still within his reach. But now, you were out of his watch, slipping further away with every passing second.

“Secure her. I’m going to meet her,” he ordered, his voice cold and sharp.

“Yes, sir.”

"Prepare the car," Bucky ordered, his voice cold and demanding.

"But, sir, you have a meeting at 2 p.m", his assistant replied, hesitant.

Bucky shot him a sharp glare, his jaw tightening.

The assistant quicklu nodded. "I'll reschedule it, sir," he muttered avoiding Bucky's piercing gaze.

🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸

Minutes later, Bucky arrived at a quiet café where Grace was waiting under the watchful eye of his security team. The moment he saw her, he recognized her immediately—your friend, the one who had attended your wedding. Grace was the only person you had trusted with the details of this marriage contract.

Bucky approached the table, his expression unreadable, but his clenched fists betrayed the storm brewing inside him.

“Where is she?” His voice was steady, but there was an edge of desperation he couldn’t fully mask.

Grace avoided his gaze, staring down at the steaming cup of coffee in front of her.

He sighed heavily, running a hand through his hair. “I could raise my voice at you, but I won’t. Grace, please. Tell me where she is.”

Grace finally looked up, her expression guarded. “As far as I know, last night was the last day of your marriage. Today, she’s a free woman.”

Her words hit him harder than he expected, and for a moment, Bucky’s mask slipped. He stared at her, bewildered, the weight of everything sinking in. What had he done to make you leave? Had he overlooked something so significant? And why did Grace seem to despise him so much?

Before he could respond, his phone buzzed again. He stepped aside to take the call, his jaw tightening as he listened.

“Sir, we’ve reviewed additional footage. Mrs. used Grace’s ID to purchase another ticket. She’s already on the plane.”

Bucky’s grip on the phone tightened. His gaze snapped back to Grace, who was now watching him warily.

“Grace,” he began, his voice sharper this time. “I’m asking you again. Where is she?”

Grace shook her head, her tone calm but firm. “I don’t know.”

His frustration boiled over. He leaned forward, his palms flat on the table as he stared her down. “Don’t lie to me, Grace.”

She didn’t flinch. “I’m not lying. You don’t know anything about her.”

Her words struck a nerve, leaving him momentarily speechless. He straightened, trying to collect himself, but his mind was racing. Don’t know anything about her? He hated the implication.

“She trusted you,” he said, his voice low. “You were the only one who knew about the arrangement, the only one she confided in.”

“And that’s why I won’t betray her trust now,” Grace replied evenly.

Author Note: Do you found this interesting? Would you like it to be continued?

[perpetual-stories]

Eight Strategies for Improving Dialogue in Your Writing

Well, hi! Oh my… wow! It’s been a long time since I’ve posted! I’ve been very busy and I am genuinely sorry to all my followers, but that doesn’t mean I’ve forgotten about this account, but here is one final post for the year!

Hopefully next year I become consistent with it again!

Let’s begin!

One of the best ways to help a reader connect with your writing is by crafting excellent dialogue. Use these tips to learn how to write dialogue that showcases character development, defines your characters’ voices, and hooks readers.

Why Use Dialogue?

Good dialogue performs all sorts of functions in fiction writing. It defines your characters’ voices, establishes their speech patterns, exposes the inner emotions, and showcases their character development. Beyond mere characterization, effective dialogue can also establish the setting and time period of your story and reveal information in a way that doesn’t feel overly expository.

Authors use lines of dialogue to reveal a character’s personality and express their point of view. For instance, an archetypal football coach might speak in short, terse sentences peppered with exclamation points and quotations from famous war generals. By contrast, a nebbish lover with a broken heart might drone on endlessly to his therapist or best friend, speaking in run-on sentences that circle around his true motivations. When an author can reveal character traits through dialogue, it cuts down on exposition and makes a story flow briskly.

Eight Writing Tips for Improving Dialogue

The first time you write dialogue, you may find it quite difficult to replicate the patterns of normal speech. This can be compounded by the concurrent challenges of finding your own voice and telling a great story overall. Even bestselling authors can get stuck on how a particular character says a particular line of dialogue. With practice and hard work, however, lackluster dialogue can be elevated to great dialogue.

Here are some strategies for improving the dialogue in your own work:

Mimic the voices of people in your own life. Perhaps you’ve created a physician character with the same vocal inflections as your mother. Perhaps your hero soldier talks just like your old volleyball coach. If you want to ensure that your dialogue sounds the way real people speak, there’s no better resource than the real life people in your everyday world.

Mix dialogue with narration. Long runs of dialogue can dislodge a reader from the action of a scene. As your characters talk, interpolate some descriptions of their physical postures or other activity taking place in the room. This mimics the real-world experience of listening to someone speaking while simultaneously taking in visual and olfactory stimuli.

Give your main character a secret. Sometimes a line of dialogue is most notable for what it withholds. Even if your audience doesn’t realize it, you can build dynamic three-dimensionality by having your character withhold a key bit of information from their speech. For instance, you may draft a scene in which a museum curator speaks to an artist about how she wants her work displayed—but what the curator isn’t saying out loud is that she’s in love with the artist. You can use that secret to embed layers of tension into the character’s spoken phrases.

Use a layperson character to clarify technical language. When you need dialogue to convey technical information in approachable terms, split the conversation between two people. Have one character be an expert and one character be uninformed. The expert character can speak at a technical level, and the uninformed one can stop them, asking questions for clarification. Your readers will appreciate it.

Use authentic shorthand. Does your character call a gun a “piece” or a “Glock”? Whatever it is, be authentic and consistent in how your characters speak. If they all sound the same, your dialogue needs another pass.

Look to great examples of dialogue for inspiration. If you're looking for a dialogue example in the realm of novels or short stories, consider reading the great books written by Mark Twain, Judy Blume, or Toni Morrison. Within the world of screenwriting, Aaron Sorkin is renowned for his use of dialogue.

Ensure that you’re punctuating your dialogue properly. Remember that question marks and exclamation points go inside quotation marks. Enclose dialogue in double quotation marks and use single quotation marks when a character quotes another character within their dialogue. Knowing how to punctuate dialogue properly can ensure that your reader stays immersed in the story.

Use dialogue tags that are evocative. Repeating the word “said” over and over can make for dull writing and miss out on opportunities for added expressiveness. Consider replacing the word “said” with a more descriptive verb.

[justinspoliticalcorner]

Konstantin Toropin and Steve Beynon at Military.com:

It was supposed to be a routine appearance, a visit from the commander in chief to rally the troops, boost morale and celebrate the Army's 250th-birthday week, which culminates with a Washington, D.C., parade slated for Saturday. Instead, what unfolded Tuesday at Fort Bragg, North Carolina, bore little resemblance to the customary visit from a president and defense secretary. There, President Donald Trump unleashed a speech laced with partisan invective, goading jeers from a crowd of soldiers positioned behind his podium -- blurring the long-standing and sacrosanct line between the military and partisan politics.

As Trump viciously attacked his perceived political foes, he whipped up boos from the gathered troops directed at California leaders, including Gov. Gavin Newsom -- amid the president's controversial move to deploy the National Guard and Marines against protesters in Los Angeles -- as well as former President Joe Biden and the press. The soldiers roared with laughter and applauded Trump's diatribe in a shocking and rare public display of troops taking part in naked political partisanship. For this story, Military.com reached out to Defense Secretary Pete Hegseth's office as well as the Army and the 82nd Airborne Division directly with a series of questions that ranged from the optics of the event to social media posts showing the sale of Trump campaign merchandise on the base, to the apparent violation of Pentagon policies on political activity in uniform. Internal 82nd Airborne Division communications reviewed by Military.com reveal a tightly orchestrated effort to curate the optics of Trump's recent visit, including handpicking soldiers for the audience based on political leanings and physical appearance. The troops ultimately selected to be behind Trump and visible to the cameras were almost exclusively male. One unit-level message bluntly said "no fat soldiers." "If soldiers have political views that are in opposition to the current administration and they don't want to be in the audience then they need to speak with their leadership and get swapped out," another note to troops said. Service officials declined to comment when asked about the extent to which troops were screened, whether soldiers displaying partisan cheers on television -- a violation of long-standing Pentagon rules -- would be disciplined or if soldiers who objected to participating in the event, citing disagreements with the administration, would be disciplined or admonished in any way. "This has been a bad week for the Army for anyone who cares about us being a neutral institution," one commander at Fort Bragg told Military.com on the condition of anonymity to avoid retaliation. "This was shameful. I don't expect anything to come out of it, but I hope maybe we can learn from it long term." Experts were quick to come out and say that the public silence from military leadership is a missed opportunity to reinforce the military's nonpartisan nature. Meanwhile, the political leadership at the head of the Defense Department was far from apologetic. Adding to the spectacle, a pop-up shop operated by 365 Campaign, a Tulsa, Oklahoma-based retailer that sells pro-Trump and other conservative-coded memorabilia, was set up on-site with campaign-style merchandise on Army property. Soldiers were seen purchasing clothing and tchotchkes, including "Make America Great Again" chain necklaces to faux credit cards labeled "White Privilege Card: Trumps Everything." Permitting the sale of overtly partisan merchandise on an Army base likely runs afoul of numerous Defense Department regulations aimed at preserving the military's long-standing commitment to political neutrality.  [...] Trump is far from the first president to use the troops as a backdrop for a speech that had political notes. But experts say this speech crossed a line and showed the military's ethics can be vulnerable. [...] However, many of those examples were presidents choosing the setting to speak to the troops about military policy and issues that affected them personally, and with the exceptions of polite applause and laughs at presidential jokes, troops have not been especially vocal or reactive to the rhetoric being offered.

Draft Dodger Donald’s appearance at Fort Bragg this week was a partisan rally disguised as supporting the troops to prepare for the 250th birthday of the Army.

See Also:

Daily Kos: Trump’s gross abuse of the military takes an ugly turn—even for him

The Status Kuo (Jay Kuo): Bragg-adocious

[shirefantasies]

LoTR Characters When You Give Them Flowers

Sorry for the absence, been crazy times 😅 Just something cute I couldn’t get out of my head, enjoy~ Also, correcting my Faramir drought let’s frickin go 🤙🏻

Aragorn

The last town you’d stopped in, there’d been a girl. A little thing, hardly more than seven or eight years old, and there she stood with a basket in hand. She was selling flowers, long and dainty stems with white blooms, no doubt to help her family sitting off in the distance.

The moment he laid eyes upon her, Aragorn had bent over, pressing the loaf he had just bought into her hand and whispering some words of hope you wished you could hear. Heart leaping, you watched him move along before approaching the girl yourself.

~

When night had fallen and a fire began crackling, you took the flowers from behind your back and held them out to the ranger you so dearly loved. The smile that instantly graced him was truly a worthwhile blessing.

“I know where you found these,” he remarked, turning them gently over in his hand as his smile softened.

You mirrored the expression. “I thought they could use a bowl of soup to split the loaf with. And you deserve a gift, even to the smallest gifts of the earth.”

Wordlessly, Aragorn took your hand with the one not holding the flowers, clutching it tight as his blue eyes gazed into yours.

Legolas

“Do you elves know anything of the language of flowers?”

Legolas’s brows furrowed a bit at that, and you couldn’t help giggling at the sight of his expression, his next choice of words. “Words of the trees, yes, but flowers? Perhaps an old tale.”

“No, no,” you shook your head, still smiling, “my people have quite the elaborate custom around flowers. Different blooms in different colors make quite unique statements. Take roses for instance- they come in a whole slew of colors.”

“I see,” he nodded, “so a yellow rose would speak volumes apart from a red one, then?”

Your heart leapt at Legolas’s choices, his unwitting contrast between the blossoms of friendship and passionate, deep love. “Indeed. There are even flowers that say ‘your letter was received’! But if this is unfamiliar to the elves, any flowers would be quite the surprise, would they not?”

“We have always had appreciation for the earth’s beauty.”

You took that as as close of a yes as you’d get, shaking your head as you shifted in the hard base of your seat, turning back to grab the vase of flowers you’d made for your friend, the one who made your heart beat like no other. White lilies could symbolize mourning, but also that one’s love was pure. Perfect, perhaps, if unrequited. Pink irises for hope, though. Hundred-leaved roses in pink for a love truly sincere. Bursts of snow and sunset pink dotted with faint yellow, all curated by your hand to shine with words you hadn’t the heart to speak aloud.

“As do I. These I arranged for you, in fact!” Hands curling around the vase, you held your gift aloft.

Legolas’s dark eyes lit up, mischief crossing his handsome face. “Now that I’ll be guessing the meaning?”

You flushed, rising from your seat as his hands covered yours, accepting your offering. “Well, I was just curious if you’ve heard of-”

“Oh, it is far too late for that! I’m certain Lord Elrond has books on the subject. By tomorrow I’ll be an expert, and who knows? Perhaps you’ll find some flowers of your own.”

You couldn’t help shakily smiling as Legolas’s eyes peered into yours glittering so, his hands still resting warmly over yours.

Boromir

“Boromir! Look!”

The man in question turned his head at the sound of your voice, watching as you bounded his way with hands full of flowers. Their bright color perfectly brought out the tone of your twinkling eyes, eyes that glittered unlike anything Boromir had ever witnessed before.

“Lovely, truly,” he inclined his head toward them as you reached him, “the finest. Where did you come by these?”

“Off at the far end of the meadow!”

Boromir chuckled deeply. “The firewood may have been forgotten, then?”

Pouting suited you, didn’t it? Adorable indeed. “Well, I just saw these and-”

“Worry not,” he slid an arm about your waist, “firewood is no emergency. You deserve this small joy- we all do.”

Glancing down a bit, you extended your hand, raising your treasure such that it practically brushed you both as it connected you. “Well, they are for you.” Were you flushing?

“For me? Well, what a gift! I suppose they do suit me more than you. After all…” Smiling, Boromir tightened his grip around you just a bit. “The most beautiful blossom in leagues is right here. If you keep this little bouquet they will envy you forever.”

Gimli

You stand beneath the awning’s shade, swaying slightly as you tend to the baskets placed along your cart. Your favorite is one filled with mountain poppies collected near the base of the snows, cheery and delicate and brisk as it had felt to be there trimming them. Truly you love your life, though it gets lonely having only plants to speak to. Sometimes you find yourself drifting into fantasy, imagining someone to protect you. You like to think you’re no damsel in distress, but the truth of the matter is you’ve never been a fighter and the village ravagers have been drawing closer.

~

A woman purchases a simple vase of sunflowers, nodding gratefully as you pass them to her. Behind her, though, emerges a shorter figure- a dwarf, by the looks of his armor and beard. You smile. That trip to the mountains introduced you to a host of very friendly dwarrowdams who bid you stay in their boardinghouse, boisterous though it may have been.

“Good afternoon,” you greet him from aside an arrangement of daisies.

“Good afternoon indeed! Tell me, though, why one as fair as yourself is hiding behind a lot of old daisies, eh?”

Flushing, you shrug and step around the side of the cart, removing all obstructions. “I suppose I’m just a bit used to it is all. Were you looking for anything in particular?”

The dwarf shakes his head. “Nay, I was just struck by the sight of the one smile this town seems to have.”

It is a fair point. Rohan has been downcast of late, hope in short supply with all the attacks. Your lot was seen as mere peasants in the way of it all.

“Times have been hard. The orc packs have been running rampant for a long time. I- I don’t know how much longer we can hold out.”

Smirking victoriously, the dwarf leans on his axe. “You wouldn’t happen to mean the pack of stragglers that just got slaughtered, would you?”

You lit up. “You’ve seen them?”

“With my own eyes. They certainly won’t be bothering you anymore.”

“Pick anything you’d like here, please, it isn’t much, but it is the least I could do to repay your gift,” you insisted, waving a hand over your display.

He scanned your cart before a look of comical shock burst across his face at the poppies. Noting it, you lifted the basket gingerly into his hands.

“Those are my favorites, too! And they are yours.”

“Only if you keep one to remember me by. Gimli, son of Glóin,” he introduces himself sweepingly, outstretched hand deftly producing a poppy to hold out your way.

Frodo

“What is this one?” Frodo inquired, holding up a small leather tome.

“Oh,” you tilted your head, “that one is a bit different. Here, let me show you.”

Shifting to sit at his side, you took the book from his outstretched palms and opened it, revealing pages blank save for the flowers you’d pressed in them, splashes of yellow, red, purple, green.

“I try to add one from everywhere I’ve been,” you added, turning the pages, “I even have a page from the Shire.”

The spread of the next pages revealed stems of lavender you’d plucked from gardens, Shire daisies, even some pansies you’d plucked from Bag End itself, and plenty more, too. Frodo’s bright eyes widened at the sight of it, a smile growing upon his lips.

“This is a treasure to see- a reminder of home, and one I can touch, too,” he sighed, brushing his fingers softly over the crisp petals, “I remember the feel of them again.”

His relief was practically palpable in the air as his eyelids fluttered shut in content, smile growing. Heart swelling, you pushed it closer to him.

“It’s yours.”

“I can’t-” He protested.

Handing the leather-bound book over to him, you nodded. “Yes, you can. Your happiness, your relief, is a much greater gift than these to me. The earth will renew it over again on my travels,” you told him with a smile.

One of Frodo’s hands left the petals long enough to linger atop yours. “I will never be parted from it.”

Sam

“Sam! Oh, Sam, wait up!”

Turning his golden head your way, Sam smiles the moment he sees you, sending your heart leaping from your chest as he speaks your name softly in reply.

“What is it?”

“Well, nothing, really,” you reply shyly, hands behind your back, “I just saw these and thought of you.”

Alight is the only word you could have used to describe Sam’s face as your hands leave your back and bring forth the bunch of little bluish-white blossoms you had just discovered a little off the road.

“Absolute beauts, those are,” he breathes with a grin, “harebell, they’re called. They like to grow in rocks for some reason, the little buggers.”

His knowledge sweeps you off your feet, but you can’t help asking. “Do you like them?”

“Of course I do! These are some really pretty ones, very bright indeed!”

Holding them out, you giggle nervously. “Well, good, because they’re for you! I picked these to give you, Sam.”

Jaw dropping and green eyes widening, Sam reaches forward and gently takes the miniature bouquet from your hands. “You mean it?” He asks with another bright grin.

“I really do,” you smile and nod.

For the rest of the day those harebells don’t leave Sam’s hand, and any time he has a moment’s idleness he’s looking at them, fingers gently caressing the blossoms as he glances your way with a smile.

Merry

Normally Merry dipped you. But you changed that that night. Normally he was the one to sweep you off your feet, charm you, but it was you who stole his breath away that night. The way you took his hand and pulled him closer into the dance, twirled him and brought him inches from your face, only had him wanting more.

What really got him, though? The rose you’d handed him at the end of it all. Such a simple gesture and yet he couldn’t tear his eyes off the thing. Or you.

Surely you noticed. The two of you were quite comfortable, else you wouldn’t be dancing so, but no one had gone beyond any teasing. It was all in good fun, unspoken attraction that suddenly grew, enveloping and consuming Merry’d beating heart as he looked at you with new passion. He needed someone who made his heart race so by his side. Someone like you could keep him up being the best hobbit he could be.

And that was why he marched right up to you later in the evening, taking one more massive swig of ale before he approached, rose twirling between his fingertips all the while.

“I hope you meant this,” he nodded down to the bright red bloom, “as much as I mean this.”

Your lips parted, the beginnings of a question fell from them, but not much escaped before your lips were pulled into Merry’s, your hands falling against his chest.

Pippin

Never had you felt so light as when you were around one mister Peregrin Took. All your time with him, it seemed, was spent in joy, laughter, comfort. One look from him was all it took for a smile to creep onto your face. One song from him and it was all you could do not to kiss him right then and there.

For your part, though, you weren’t sure how he felt, thus you acted accordingly, enjoying the time you had with him as much as possible without pushing your feelings. Well, not too much- he was quite fun to tease, after all!

A flower had caught your eye as you strolled, some little cousin to a daisy bursting from brush in a merry little yellow spark you couldn’t help taking for yourself.

Well, mostly. “For you,” you said in a playful lilt, holding it out his way.

The manner in which his smile and shoulders rose had you shyly grinning. “For me?” He repeated, ecstatic as he was incredulous.

The moment you nodded the flowers was all but snatched from your hand. “Where do you think it would look better, here?” First he tucked it into his mess of curls. “Or here?” Tucking it next into the buttonhole of his coat, he grinned at you.

Giggling, you told him he didn’t have to wear it.

“Oh, I want to. I want the whole of Middle Earth to know you’ve given me this gift.” Comical as his words were, the shine in his eyes told you Pippin was sincere.

Faramir

The steward of Gondor had gone up before the people to address them on some perceived victory. To his side he had pulled up his son, the elder one, and named him spearhead of it all. Boromir was a great man, certainly, but so in no shorter words was his brother Faramir, the dearer sibling to your heart.

The moment you met Faramir in the crowd of people, mostly men celebrating in their keep outfit, dented as it was, you rested a hand upon his shoulder. “Let nobody so insignificant taint your victory, Faramir. Were it not for you, half the city would not even be standing.”

“We could have kept it as it was if we-”

“No,” you shook your head, leaning a bit further on him, “none of that. You are a man, not a miracle worker. And so is your brother and everyone else in your family. You have fortitude of mind, strength of heart.”

“Yet less the swing of a sword,” Faramir chuckled.

“The swing of a sword alone a kingdom does not make,” you teasingly chastised, waving a finger, “besides, you have something none of them will ever have.”

“And what is that?” He asks, gently lifting your hand off his shoulder and up to his lips.

“My heart,” you reply, pulling one of the flowers woven into your hair out to press it into his other palm.

Faramir pulls those petals to his lips, too, twirling the stem thoughtfully with a hum. “Then I am, indeed, blessed.”

Eomer

Every time it felt like your heart would shatter. He left again and again but it never got easier wondering if the man you’d grown to love would be torn from you in a brutal battle, one lax moment ending it all.

Tears pricked at your eyes as he looked into them with a smile far too easygoing to you. Too assured.

“Do not look so defeated,” Eomer told you, reaching down with a hand to caress your face in a way that sent your heart leaping, “it’s a small raiding party, that is all.”

“I know, I just-” Your breath hitched, words caught in your throat. “I care about you. I don’t want to see you hurt.”

At that, he smiled, releasing his hand again. “You should worry more for the orcs.”

“Still, though, here,” shaking your head, you produced the bundle of flowers you’d tied together for him, face warming, “take these. For luck.”

Eomer’s smile widened even as his horse grew a bit restless; giving its mane a quick pat, he reached down to accept your proffered gift. Sweeping some golden hair off his shoulder, he tucked your blossoms into his saddle.

“Now I know I’ll make it,” he replied, and with a wink he rode off.

Needless to say, he has gifts of his own planned when he returns: a confession, once and for all, and a kiss.

Haldir

"Come now, keep up!"

"Whatever for?"

Laughing, you turn to face Haldir once more and see him ascending the spiraling steps behind you with a look of exasperation. Perhaps, too, amusement. Long, fair hair whips about his face in the breeze as a smile teases onto his lips.

“Is it so bad to spend a little time together?” You shot back merrily, feet still eagerly tapping upon every plank that raised you higher amidst the boughs.

“I only ask because I know of your schemes,” Haldir teases in response.

“If you must know,” you stopped, hands on your hips before you waved one about a spray of vines snaking over the tree’s bark, powder-blue blossoms extending from them, “my scheme was to see if you'd noticed these in your travels."

"I had not," he murmured in response, stepping to your side to caress a pale petal gently, warmth filling you at his proximity.

With a small smile, you took up the age-old habit you'd developed in childhood so many years past, deftly plucking and weaving stems together as Haldir watched with amused interest. Unsure as you were how much time passed, he stood stock-still even as you finished your work, placing the crown of flowers atop his head.

"Here you are, My King," you jested with a smile, taking two steps forward.

Grey eyes staring into yours, Haldir took your hand, shaking his head softly and taking a blossom of his own. "Wait here. No king should rule alone, after all."

Eowyn

Riding brought such joy and exhilaration as one could hardly know elsewhere, especially with a fair and fearless maid like Lady Eowyn at your side. The smile you so longed to see bloomed across her face as you both urged your horses on, picking up speed into a run across the green of the plains. The thudding of hooves invigorated you as the pair of you pressed on, riding like the wind until whim took you to dismount and stop for a breather.

As you sat upon the grass, a dotting of pink flowers amidst the waving green caught your eye; joy seizing you, you picked one after the other until you had a tiny handful. Eowyn’s eyes, you saw, drifted over your work, but she said nothing.

Nothing, that was, until you broke the silence. “These remind me of you, you know. We often think of flowers here as signs of mourning, but these? These are hope. Bits of brightness out of nothing.”

She smiled faintly, shyly, blue eyes shining. “Sometimes it does not feel so.”

“Well, to me it is so,” you replied, extending your little bouquet her way.

The glitter of her eyes somehow brightened as she looked upon your gift, smile opening all the way. You were overcome at the sight of it, the return of warmth to the fairest of faces, and before you realized it you had leaned in and pressed your lips to hers.

Arwen

“But surely you have already received so many mighty gifts!”

“None were from you,” Arwen replied simply, breathily, waving a hand, “come, show me.”

Her smile, breathtaking even in the simplest of moments, encouraged you to pull your hands from behind your back, revealing the bouquet you’d recently tied. With the best ribbon you’d found on hand, of course, beautiful white silk lined with thin silver.

“You see, I wanted to honor you with gifts pure as your heart- gifts from the earth. These are-”

“From the garden where we met!” Arwen was one to remain composed, often feeling the pressure of her years and upbringing and, surely, wisdom. “Of course I remember! You tripped and I caught you!”

Unable to help flushing beneath her grin and the rush of memory, the heat across your face as you pitched over a stone and were captured by the hand of the most graceful maiden you’d ever seen, you simply smiled. “That would be the time. Ever since that day I cannot walk past white roses without thinking of you. And that seems fitting,” you added.

Arwen pursed her lips, eyebrows raising curiously. “Oh?”

“Pure,” you repeated, “fair and beloved as all. Delicate, but formidable. More than capable of defending themselves.”

“Are you saying I have thorns?” She teased, leaning an arm upon your shoulder, breath warm against your ear.

“I’ve seen what you can do,” you shot back, “perhaps I am.”

“Well, at any rate, I love this gift far beyond all displays of wealth. This is a gift of your heart, is it not?”

The moment you nodded, her arms were thrown about your neck, pulling you into the warmth of her chest and letting your heart beat against hers.

[multifunctionalnitroglycerin]

The Radiant Dawn, Leona of the Solari – an analysis

Leona, Leona, what to do with you, oh Radiant Dawn, daughter of the Sun-forgers? You who scorn love so, in the face of duty?

What with the latest season of Arcane having fully come out, and many of us still grasping to comprehend the ending of that wonderful series (I will maintain that it’s probably one of the best pieces of media I have ever had the joy of consuming), I got to thinking about another military dictator that leads a scourge against her lover’s people. So, strap in and grab your drinks, cause this is going to be a long one.

I have seen some funny posts juxtapositioning Violyn/ Caitvi and Leodia, and while one cannot deny the first glance similarities in the stories, especially with the new route Piltover’s finest took, the premise of their stories is at its core different.  BUT today we will not explore the similarities and differences in the premise of the broader systems that both stories take place in, but rather take a deeper look into our beloved obstacle of a Targonian “cult leader”, Leona.

            Now Leona’s character in league is rather…unremarkable at first glance. More of an obstacle than a worthy adversary, a mindless cultist that perpetuates the oppression against her peoples’ sister tribe, too blind to see past that, even when her lover begs her to. Personally, I prefer to think of Leona as an unremarkable character with remarkable potential, should Riot decide to ever do anything with it. The roots of a good story have already been planted. Because yes, in Arcane we also talked about oppression, class stratification, abuse of power, and a twisted corrupt judicial system, but now, in Targon, we’ll talk about cults.

I am no expert, but cultism and totalitarian regimes do have a few common points in the way they function, thus the perceived similarities between the two storylines. However, I feel in the hands of capable writers the Targonian storyline can become a beautiful story about religious fanatism, and cultism, the struggle of individuality, and how challenging it is to escape from them, if at all… (I do like some tragic lesbians, sue me. A happy ending that does justice to the inherent tragedy of those two will have to be earned, and if a tragic ending is what does them justice, I will accept it.)

It’s high time we got this party started though, isn’t it?

Leona is born in the Solari tribe of Targon, a tribe that venerated the Sun more than any other upon the mountain. Which at first glance seems innocent enough, right?

Cults in principle, and to my limited understanding, are authoritarian systems that revolve around a particular belief, that have rules and dogma and encourage their members to isolate themselves from would-be questioners of their faith. By taking a look at what we know about the Solari, most of these terms seem to be fulfilled. An authoritarian system based around the worship of the Sun, with strict rules, rigid principles, and rituals, led not by one charismatic leader, as many cults are, but by a council of elders, that determine what is acceptable and what not in Her worship. While they also take care to mindfully curate the available information in the temple and discourage or silence those that oppose their teachings.

Leona is a child born to the Sun-forgers Melia and Iasur, and takes to her parents’ faith with a stride, comfortable in its rigidity and its unrelenting structures. She is reportedly as seen both through her bio and the letter to her parents in “Rise with me”, a near perfect acolyte, her devotion, and excellence in seemingly everything but that one oration class, inspiring envy in her peers, and admiration in her elders, all of them certain that she would one day become a Ra’Horak, a holy warrior of the Solari.

The thing is, that children growing up in cults are a tricky thing to write despite its supposed straightforwardness. Especially if you want to create a character as complicated as I hope Leona will turn out to be. The basics of it are things we already know; children are extremely vulnerable to adult influence; their minds are sponges and their parents’ world is their world. They listen, observe and absorb the behavior, the views and opinions of the people around them, and accept them as reality, because they are children and do not know any better. As one might imagine, the extent of fanatism that Leona grew up with is variable, depending on how her own parents acted and how deep in they were themselves. Now I am a bit rusty on Rakori and Targonian lore, but if we take the short story “Rise with me” into account, I think it is safe to say that Melia and Iasur were in pretty deep.

Another thing to note about children that grow up in cults is that the cult leader and the cult’s needs come first. Which means that the child rarely enjoys their parents’ attention, much less love and affection. Something that in my humble opinion would drive some of them to strive for perfection and trying to satisfy their parents’ every wish and every whim, in hope of getting even a hint of affection. That is something we can see rather clearly in the story if we want to examine a bit Leona’s relationship with her Dayblessed parents.

Before we dive into that, however, what we can summarize from all of the above is that Leona is, in principle, a person that likes rules. Someone that grew up heeding them. That thrives in hierarchical systems, and well-structured environments, with clear denominations for right and wrong, for what one should and should not do. According to the bio this rigidity brings her comfort, and solace. Because it is familiar and comfortable. It’s what in all probability she grew up with. Moreover, Leona is a perfectionist. Something we are told, through her bio, and her own letters and diary, but we can also see when looking at her through the lens of Diana’s eyes.

To continue with my previous point, though, when looking at her relationship with her parents…well, I’ll let you figure this out on your own. We only have her diary entries and letters sent and unsent to garner information from, but that is enough to paint a detailed enough picture of what her relationship with her parents entails. Even without looking at it from the “child that grew up in a cult” angle, we can see there is little affection between them. Even from her first letter, we can feel the clean-cut, prim and proper courteousness of their communication, accompanied by the hints of affection every child holds for their parents. It is, however, far from warm, or heartfelt. It seems more like kind interest, than any real investment, in her parents’ or siblings’ wellbeing and then proceeds to become a report on her achievements and perceived weaknesses. Even the title of the section, the opening of the letter, “Letter from a devoted daughter” holds no personality, as if Leona’s entire being can be compressed and described by those two words.

We do get a similar impression from the letter Polymnius sent to Melia and Iasur. The letter itself contains the priest’s thanks for the new lanternglass crafted by the sun-forger, and also devolves to a report of Leona’s progress after his communication with all of her instructors, and his observation of her skills in battle. Now on the one hand, Polymnius could be just a family friend or the priest responsible for communicating with the acolytes’ families. On the other hand however, one might start questioning just how much control Leona’s parents can exert over her life, even in their absence. Do they hold sway with the priesthood? Are their immense expectations passed on through priests and teachers, adding more and more to the pressure Leona faces every day? To be strong, devout, worthy and good? And again, the letter ends with  “I know you would be proud.” I am sure they would Polymnius, I am sure they would.

            At this point I’d like to point out that he is probably the only person that worries that Leona is taking her duties far too seriously and needs to take a few steps back to relax and delight in the Sun’s gifts. (And honestly, same.)

Moving forward we have the Letter from Sunsworn Priestess Nemyah to a shining pupil, that once more applauds Leona for her achievements, with little to no fanfare. And again we note that sense of depersonalization, of Leona being defined by those characterizations, by her achievements, her rights and wrongs. 

            And then of course we get into the fight between Leona and Diana and the disciplinary letter sent to her by her parents. Which honestly goes about as well as you would expect,

We know that you are capable of better and expect you to rise to the occasion. Leaders in Her Light do not run into impediments that they cannot overcome, nor do they get hindered by such earthly mischief as “a shouting match at school.”

And of course

…will speak with you about how better to secure your future then.

So much for parental love… If anything, it’s a declaration of disappointment, with clear expectations and measures to be met, We know you are better than this, we expect you to be better than this, leaders do not fumble. Sounds particularly loving, doesn’t it? Definitely not like they worry about their reputation, and their image in the community more than their daughter’s wellbeing and most certainly not like they have her future already decided for her. A future they can benefit from, of course.

I will try to keep this at a reasonable length and will not overly analyze Leona’s own unsent replies, for they are pretty straightforward. They are characterized by Leona’s anxiety, fear and guilt for disappointing her parents and failing to reach the tremendous expectations they have set for her.

            So to sum this part up, Leona was raised by overly strict parents, in an environment in which she received little to no affection and positive reinforcement, even for her achievements that far exceeded those of her peers. She has also been burdened with a set of rather impossible expectations, that she strives to reach no matter what. We saw that Iasur and Melia are quick to discipline her and voice their disappointment, rather rancidly might I say, and yet made little to no mention of Leona’s multiple achievements that have been noted by multiple instructors as well as Polymnius. As for Leona herself, one might say she is afraid to be herself and express her own thoughts. Even when she writes a letter that truly encompasses her thoughts and feelings, in that same letter she resolutely states that she will not send it.

So insofar we have an affection-starved, rule-loving perfectionist, that probably hasn’t had any positive reinforcement since she was like 5 and has her parents and everyone around her connect and define her worth as a person though her personal achievements and services in Her light. It would be safe to assume that from a point on, Leona herself starts putting herself in those boxes, limiting her sense of self and worth to the glass ceiling of their expectations, adding more and more expectations on herself, back bending further and further back, until inevitably reaching her breaking point. And of course, this is all she has ever known. The rules, the hierarchy, the expectations, the dogma, is what she grew up with, is what feels familiar, and in a twisted sense, “right”.  We could thus somewhat explain why Leona holds her duty in such high regard. She has come to define herself and her worth as a person, through it. It’s all she has ever really known.

            Not to say that things are as bleak as they seem at first glance. For there is one shining light in Leona’s life, one guiding beacon that tries to break her out of the glass cage, at least at the point in time when Rise With Me takes place, and it is none other than Diana.

            Now, according to Leona’s bio, she saw in Diana an ever-curious spirit devoted to the search for meaning, and the truth, and that’s sth that holds up in the short story as well. Diana’s ingenuity and unique perspective of things, her being the one dissonant voice in the harmonious chorus of the elders’ teachings, intrigue young Leona.

When looking into the respective missives that Leona sends to Diana in respects of their shared oration class, starting from the first one even, we can see that despite all the greatness she has achieved, all her triumphs, and graces, she remains shy, and humble. Even knowing that she is amongst the best of her peers, and the priests’ favorites, she does not brag, does not demand, does not exert any power or control. Instead, she approaches her faults humbly and asks for Diana’s – the outcast’s - help in a respectful manner. She does not let her shortcomings define her or hinder her. She recognizes them as something to improve, and humbly asks for help from someone she believes she can benefit from, someone that will help, and not just shower her with mindless praise.  She recognizes Diana’s ingenuity and applauds her argument construction; while pledging to help her in return should Diana need assistance herself.

Leona is humble and kind. Though to a certain degree we might even consider her having a bit of a people pleasing attitude accompanied by a slight lack of confidence. Perfectionists as a rule hate making mistakes or seeming inadequate. It’s a big blow in their confidence and the sense of self they have constructed around the concept of said perfection. After living for so long in an environment of such heavy expectations, it’s no wonder one might start second-guessing themselves, no matter how good they are, even for the smallest of mistakes.

            Back to Leona though, she is humble, kind and considerate, perhaps even to a fault. There is this sense of her not wanting to impose on Diana’s schedule, on which she rather insists. She doesn’t want to be trouble, she does not want to be a burden, and of course she then offers her own help in return should it be needed, which is the decent and honorable thing to do.

            Leona’s diary entry where she considers asking Diana to the festival is what also gives us a glimpse of the person behind the armor, behind the rule abiding student, behind the mask of achievements and perfection. To no surprise, we get a more in depth perspective of Leona’s own thoughts and feelings, as long as her take on “how to ask the girl I like out without coming across like a total fool, or indoctrinating asshole?” She is anxious, thoughtful and tender, considerate and sweet in her approach, and a little bit hopeless, but I think we can forgive her. She is downright smitten and hasn’t realized how much just yet. She even goes through with one of her plans to ask Diana to practice with the shields, and well, forgive me if I say it is adorable.

            Diana’s presence in Leona’s life and story, however, is not important because the will-be Aspect of the Sun is absolutely smitten with her, or even because she encompasses the total opposite of what Leona is (which let’s be honest, she doesn’t. They are complimentary to one another, not opposites), but because Diana makes Leona think.

            That’s the reason Leona approached her in the first place, her ability to think and construct cohesive and compelling arguments. Something that Leona herself is lacking in, because alongside most of the other Solari acolytes, she lacks critical thinking. An essential component of trying to construct an argument of any sort - if you do not want to parrot something you learned in a book once.

            Diana’s arguments, thoughts and criticisms on their given materials have Leona thinking, examining what she is taught, and what she says in oration class herself. Diana teaches Leona how to think, she teaches her how to construct arguments, how to reinforce them, to find fallacies in arguments and counteract them. In her quest to learn how to defend her point, Leona starts learning how to look deeper into things, to examine their essence, and construct counterpoints. And we can see that she starts thinking about it, if only superficially. She doesn’t go full out critical thinking, or questioning everything she has ever known, it doesn’t work like that, but the seed has been planted.  “Why do you think I need to go deeper than that when it’s widely known already?” It’s not much but it is a start to the path of critical thinking.

And then after an undetermined amount of time, comes their shared ascension. And that’s where the discrepancies in the story start. Mind you the bio was written a few years before the short story came out, so the characterization obviously is not entirely in line with what we know.

            This Leona is one that debates with Diana still, but wants to persuade her not to look further into their faith, and just accept it as it is. At Diana’s sharing the secret of the alcove, Leona is a stone wall of resistance urging her friend away from the climb, afraid for her wellbeing should she inspire further ire from the Solari. When Diana inevitably climbs the mountain, and while her first instinct is to alert the elders, Leona resolves to help and protect her friend instead and follows after her into the night. Against all odds they manage to reach the peak, and she is wreathed in golden light, fighting tooth and nail to keep her sense of self intact. And she wins.

            At this point, I think we can all see the difference between bio-Leona and the Leona that the short story sets the foundations of. Obviously for the sake of storytelling and with some tweaking these two could co-exist as canon versions of Leona in different times of her life. We could potentially be talking about a tragic story about how religion and blind adherence to duty and tradition drive a wedge between two people that very much love each other. Or the bio could be a bit of a “historical account” of what happened, and Leona having had to care for Diana after her punishments one too many times puts up a wall of resistance, an ultimatum of the “I don’t want to lose you” kind.

            No matter the case, and despite of what Riot might decide to do to expand on their story, and either give us a critical thinking Leona, or a very good reason for not having a critical thinking Leona, the point is that Leona is incredibly loyal to those she cares about.

            And now comes the point of the ascension. The critical point in their story, where instead of going with Diana, and living their happily ever after away from the system that tortured them both, albeit in completely different manners, Leona chooses to stay.

            And I think sometimes when thinking about Leona, we do not always recognize that this is the point where everything is going down. This is the point where everything we have so far discussed comes into play. Because their ascension is a traumatic experience. One that upends everything Leona has ever known. The process of their ascension is traumatic, the very essence of it, bloody terrifying. Because it is a jump into the unknown. It challenges the truths that she has constructed her whole sense of self around, demolishes the very principles that she grew up enforcing.

            There is this interaction in Legends of Runeterra, where Diana urges Leona to understand that Day needs Night, referencing the visions they both saw upon Targon’s peak. And what does Leona reply? “Visions from memories not my own.”

            Full-blown denial. Not that I particularly blame her initial reaction. Because what is it that we have here? We have that affection-starved perfectionist that grew up in a cult, that wounded inner child that has come to tie her worth as a person to the degree of her personal achievements. We have that honorable, rule abiding, and duty loving person, a person that finds solace in strict structures and hierarchies, that thrives in them, thrown into absolute CHAOS.

You have Leona, that rule abiding idiot, that transcends her own limits that takes that one calculated risk to follow Diana and save her from the mountain’s clutches and ends up with watching a blast of divine light slamming into Diana. She goes to help, and before she can help a blast of divine light slams into her, filling her head with a second divine conscience, with visions and memories of other Sun Aspects, of times when truly the people of the mountain were united. And then the onslaught ends, and she faces a Diana different from the one she knows, a Diana dressed in the colors of the enemy.

            So Leona, bearing all of the characteristics we mentioned above, is bloody terrified out of her wits. She is faced with such terrifyingly foreign notions, with such stress, that what is she going to do? She regresses back to what she already knows. And what she knows are the elders and the Solari, and the priests, the rules, the scriptures, the dogma. In face of that terrifying truth she regresses back to the perceived safety of that toxic and unhealthy system -that on top of everything is a cult- that she grew up in.

            Now this brings forth this thought about ignorance. Because Leona is ignorant of the truth. She is, however, intimately familiar with the narrative she has grown up with. People are familiar with their ignorance, and oftentimes they choose to bear the ills of what they know than to fly to others that they know not of. And thus, they are cowards. (Hamlet anyone?)

Leona is a prime example of that. Instead of sitting down and considering the new information, the truth revealed, the unknown future ahead, she clings to her ignorance, to her half-knowledge of the story, because it is familiar, and safe. And she is bloody terrified of the new unknown that Diana proposes they follow.

Now that is not to say that everything we have discussed boils down to Leona is a coward. Though that is partly true. But she is also a kid that grew up in a system that fostered that kind of cowardice. She is someone that grew up in an environment of cultism and religious fanatism, and she grew up ingrained to it. Contrary to Diana as one might point out. And these are all things we need to take into account when handling a character like Leona, and care that we do not flatten such immense complexity of conditions and circumstances, such depth of thought and emotion to “brainless genocidal cultist”. 

(Now if you ask, why does Diana have critical thinking, why did she not get ingrained and lost in that system despite growing up in it for as long if not longer than Leona, what is it that makes her different from the other cult kids, I have absolutely no idea, but that’s not the point of this particular post.)

To finish this off, the point of this post is not to excuse Leona of all the horrible things she has done, or even to argue that she is not a genocidal cultist- she very much is, and the point is definitely not to say that it is not her fault and she was just a product of her circumstances. We all are products of the circumstances that surround us, but we are not passive participants in those conditions. No, the point is to try and understand where Leona might be coming from, and to demonstrate that even the simplest and most obtuse of character concepts can have an intricate and complicated story behind them.

If you did manage to reach the end of this, congratulations! Have a cookie and don’t forget to hydrate!

[vague-humanoid]

Though calling out antisemitism is central to the commissioners’ role, it’s unclear what qualifies these officials to adjudicate anti-Jewish bigotry. Klein, for instance, came to his current position after a stint working as the German government’s representative to Jewish organizations, but prior to that, he spent most of his career in Germany’s foreign service working on unrelated issues, stationed in places like Cameroon and Italy. When I visited him in his office in Berlin last April, only a menorah decal pasted on one of the windows hinted at the nature of his position. Klein told me that there are no standardized training programs for the commissioners or educational requirements that they must fulfill before their appointments. Schüler-Springorum pointed out that, though references to the Holocaust underlie every aspect of Germany’s antisemitism system, many of the commissioners are far from experts on the history in question. “It’s amazing how little they know about National Socialism,” she lamented. None of the antisemitism commissioners for either the German Federal Government or its Bundesländer, or states, is ethnically Jewish—which, according to Klein, is by design. “The fight against antisemitism is a problem for the whole of society. It isn’t a problem for the Jewish community to face by itself,” he told me. “I mean, it’s not as though the most pressing problem with antisemitism in Germany is among Jews.”

Indeed, when Jews interact directly with the system, it is often as its targets: Klein told the Berliner Zeitung in a January 2021 interview that “tendentially left-leaning Israelis in Berlin” should “be sensitive to Germany’s special historical responsibility” when they criticize Israel. In the eyes of the commissioners, this seems to be all the more true of Muslims and Arabs—especially Palestinians—who voice support for the Palestinian cause. “Palestinians are like a thorn in the side of Germany’s memory culture,” Palestinian German lawyer Nadija Samour told Jewish Currents. They’re “disposable,” but also “crucial for the German identity . . . If you really want to prove how civilized you are, and how philosemitic or pro-Israel you are, you get the chance to prove that by throwing Palestinians under the bus.”

This commitment to Israel advocacy—which requires disciplining the state’s Jewish critics as well as suppressing Palestinian speech—has led observers to argue that the system of antisemitism commissioners exists less to ensure the safety of Jews than to placate Germans’ feelings of guilt for the Holocaust. Indeed, last summer, in the course of admonishing Palestinian Authority President Mahmoud Abbas for comparing Israel’s crimes to the Holocaust during his visit to Germany, Klein emphasized the way that antisemitism hurts Germans. “By relativizing the Holocaust, President Abbas lacked any sensitivity towards us German hosts,” Klein said. Emily Dische-Becker, a left-wing Jewish curator and journalist in Berlin, told Jewish Currents that German antisemitism efforts are ultimately not driven by a concern for Jews. “It basically is an issue of German identity politics at the end of the day,” she said. Neiman—whose 2019 book Learning from the Germans argues that the nation provides a model for other countries struggling with the weight of collective memory—told me that the creation of the commissioner system, and the passage of the anti-BDS resolution the following year, had caused her to question her previous evaluation. “Things have changed really dramatically since the book came out,” she said. “I still think that Germany did something historically unique by putting its crimes in the center of its national narrative, but I also think it’s gone haywire in the last three years. This system of antisemitism commissioners basically went in all the wrong directions.”

[blueiscoool]

Lost Chopin Music Uncovered in ‘Thrilling’ Discovery

A curator at a museum in New York City has discovered a previously unknown waltz written by Frédéric Chopin, the first time that a new piece of work by the Polish composer has been found in nearly 100 years.

The waltz, written on a small manuscript measuring about 4 inches by 5 inches, was first discovered by curator Robinson McClellan in 2019, who then sought outside expert help, according to a statement from the Morgan Library & Museum on Monday.

“He found it peculiar that he could not think of any waltzes by Chopin that matched the measures on the page,” reads the statement.

“Chopin famously wrote in ‘small forms,’ but this work, lasting about one minute, is shorter than any other waltz by him,” adds the statement.

“It is nevertheless a complete piece, showing the kind of ‘tightness’ that we expect from a finished work by the composer.”

McClellan asked Chopin expert Jeffrey Kallberg, associate dean for arts and letters at the University of Pennsylvania, to help authenticate the waltz. “Extensive research points to the strong likelihood that the piece is by Chopin,” according to the statement.

This research included analysis by paper conservators who found that the paper and ink match those that Chopin normally used.

The Morgan Library & Museum believes that the fact that the manuscript is so small could mean that it was meant to be a gift that the recipient would have kept in an autograph album.

Chopin was known to sign manuscripts that were gifts, but this one is unsigned, which the museum says suggests that he ultimately decided against giving it away.

“This newly discovered waltz expands our understanding of Chopin as a composer and opens new questions for scholars to consider regarding when he wrote it and for whom it was intended,” said McClellan in the statement.

“To hear this work for the first time will be an exciting moment for everyone in the world of classical piano.”

“Our extensive music collection is defined by handwritten examples of the creative process and it is thrilling to have uncovered a new and unknown work by such a renowned composer,” said Colin B. Bailey, museum director, in the statement.

The discovery of an unknown piece of work by Chopin has not happened since the late 1930s, according to the museum.

The Polish composer was born in 1810 and was best known for solo piano pieces.

Chopin died in Paris, France, at the age of just 39. He’s one of Poland’s most famous sons, and his name adorns the airport serving the capital Warsaw, as well as parks, streets, benches and buildings.

His works and image are ubiquitous across the central European country, and his residences bear unmissable plaques. Busts and statues of his likeness are dotted across several major cities.

Even his heart, preserved in alcohol after his death in 1849 is sealed into a wall of Warsaw’s Holy Cross Church.

But recent suggestions about Chopin’s private life collided awkwardly with Poland’s staunchly conservative traditions – and caused some to question whether the story of Chopin that Poles are told from a young age is true.

According to a Swiss radio documentary released in 2020, the composer had relationships with men, and those relationships were left out of history by successive historians and biographers; a potentially thorny charge in one of Europe’s worst countries for LGBTQ rights.

By Jack Guy.

Chopin - Waltz in A Minor (Discovered in 2024) - Played by Lang Lang

[mrs-dot-kennedy]

Hii! Saw u wanted some tsh prompts, was wondering if you could do a Henry Winter x m!reader (idk if u write those, gn or f!reader is alr if you don’t), where Henry is like. Idk how to explain it, but kinda weak and pathetic and rlly smitten? But tries to hide it under nonchalance and random facts about birds or smth. But the reader can tell he has a huge crush and sorta teases him. Idk if this is ooc 🙂‍↕️ I need him pathetic and down bad right nyoww lmao, ty for taking your time to read this, and many thanks if you end up writing this!! Sorry if it’s incoherent 🥀 Have a wonderful day!!

Hii! I am sorry it took me so long to post this, I’ve been quite busy this past few weeks. Anyway, thank you so much for this request! I had so much fun writing it. I tried not to make Henry too ooc but it’s still incredibly sweet so I don’t think I succeeded lol. I kept it as gender neutral as possible so yeah, that’s it. Thank you so much for the ask💞 (here’s the song I was listening to while writing it in case you want to play it in the background!)

Of rain and birds - Henry Winter

summary. just two fools in love spending a quiet and rainy evening at Francis’s country house

pairing. henry winter x gn! reader

warnings. None other than teeth rooting fluff

It’s a lazy evening at Francis’s country house. None of you take much pleasure in being cupped inside, but the incessant rain has rendered all your plans for the day impossible to follow through.

Bunny is napping on the carpet by the fireplace, fast asleep, he has been for the past few hours. Francis is in the kitchen, trying out some new recipe for tonight’s dinner with the help of the twins and Richard had left to his room an hour ago. Though you do not know where Henry is you are certain he must be in the library. He wanted to work on some translations or something along those lines, at least that’s what he had said at lunch.

You are perched against a window, bundled up in a sweater as you drink your tea and look absentmindedly through the window. Despite the fireplace being lit it’s still terribly cold inside the room making your skin prickle and causing you to shiver. You would go to your room for a blanket, if it weren’t for the fact that the idea of getting up and walking through the icy corridors to your room seems even more unpleasant than your current predicament.

Absorbed in watching how the incandescent glow of the lamps dances across the rain drops racing down the windowpane, you don’t notice Henry has returned to the room until he clears his throat behind you. Neither of you says a word. You only acknowledge one another with a gentle smile and a nod of your heads. He is carrying a book and a pen with him, you do not recognize the language on the cover but your mind is too fuzzy to dwell on it.

After a few minutes spent silently in the comfort of his presence, you finally speak to him. “What have you been doing?” It’s not the wittiest nor the most perceptive of questions, but he doesn’t mock you for it. Henry almost seems to find it amusing, the curl of a smile tugging on his lips as he raises his book up to show it to you. Your gaze shifts from his book to those bottomless blue eyes of his before you turn your attention back to the window, fearing you’d get lost on them like you’ve done many times before.

“What about you?” He asks, voice calm in that deliberate, quiet tone of his -yet a little too polished, as if carefully crafted so that his question sounds more offhanded than it truly is. There is something fairly new in it behind the curated ambiguity he uses like a shield, something you have become an expert in recognizing. You won’t say it out loud, but it’s warm in its nature.

Behind that facade of cool indifference he portrays, the truth is that Henry treats you like you are something precious and fragile. He behaves as if you were made of something fragile, not quite marble no. He doesn’t behave like you are one of those grandiose sculptures from past times but as if he were handling were a vase of fine china, easily cracked at the wrong pressure. You should feel offended by this erosion of your personal autonomy and agency that he is so keen on submitting you too. But you cannot bring yourself to it, cannot help the way you bask in it, relishing this attention and uncharacteristic care he extends your way.

“Not much. I’ve just been looking through the window.” you finally reply, after you realize that your silence has lingered a moment too long as you got lost in your contemplations. He drums his fingers on the cover of his book at your answer, you catch his gaze searching yours through your peripheral vision but you don’t comment on it afraid it will somehow chase him away.

“It’s cold here, wouldn’t you rather be sitting on the couch? It’s closer to the fireplace.” His concern, though stiff, tentative and slightly too formal, was genuine and it has you feeling elated. You are about to answer him when something outside the window catches your attention. It swiftly dives toward the tree closest to your window, setting its branches in motion — for a moment, they seem to battle the wind and rain. “What is that?”

At your question Henry adjusts his glasses and turns his head to look at what you are pointing. His glasses catch a flicker of light from the fireplace, and the warm glow reflects across his face in such a way that the strange movement might have lost your interest entirely, were it not for your deeply curious nature.

Henry seems to observe and consider whatever it’s on the tree for at least ten minutes before a flash of recognition crosses his eyes, sometimes you forget about how truly terrible his eyesight is. “It’s a bird.” He declares promptly, whatever small interest the animal might have once awakened in him now forgotten. But you are not quite over it yet. “A bird?” You echo, focusing your eyes on the branch until you catch sight of the small, black feathered creature perched on it. “What is it? Is it a crow?”

Henry shakes his head in disagreement at your words, you aren’t surprised by it. It would have been a lucky guess if you had said it right. The truth is that you don’t have much knowledge about birds, unlike Henry who is actually really kin on ornithology. Charles has called him a ornithomantist in the past, you seem to remember –because of his ability to interpret their behaviors and flight patterns. “It’s a grackle. But good guess.”

“A what now?” You laugh, looking humorously at him.

Henry’s gaze visibly softens at the sound and he seems to gather himself before he continues. “A grackle. You know, crows are majestic and kind of impressive -bigger, almost commanding in their all black feathers, they have this deep, purposeful caw that feels like it carries some secret meaning. There’s a certain gravitas to them, to their intelligence that borders on the uncanny. On the other hand grackles… one could say they’re a bit flashier in comparison. Smaller, slimmer, and their feathers catch the light in these beautiful shades of purple and green — like nature’s little show-offs. Their calls are sharper, almost playful, like they can’t help but be a bit restless. I guess if crows are the serious, brooding types, grackles are the ones who can’t quite sit still. It’s funny how two birds can be so alike and yet so different, isn’t it? Crows are also much more social -the form large groups, much like a family unit. But grackles they are more solitary, they are always seen in smaller flocks.”

Henry is uncharacteristically talkative, against what most people believe, but this doesn’t strike you like his usual chatter the one you’ve grown accustomed to on your walks together, in which he shares his idea without much concern about whether you are listening to him or not. That one is a kind of verbose outpouring, a stream of thoughts Henry articulates with little regard for his listener’s interest, as though he’s compelled to speak simply to clear his mind to make space for new thoughts. This feels far more intimate and intentional, reminiscent of the contemplations he shares during Julian’s classes on the texts and translations you work on. Every word, every inflection, every fact seems carefully chosen and measured to hold your attention, as if Henry were quietly seeking some form of recognition or validation from you.

Without you quite noticing, Henry has pulled a chair closer and is now sitting beside you. Your legs are touching, and your hands brush occasionally when he gestures to emphasise a point. You’re acutely aware of it -the unconscious way your bodies seem drawn to each other, like magnets. Perhaps you wouldn’t dwell on it so much if Henry were a more openly affectionate person, like Bunny or even Francis -but he isn’t. And so, any gesture, any moment that even borders on romantic tends to feel magnified in your mind -overblown, maybe, but impossible to ignore.

Henry stopped talking about crows and grackles a while ago -his train of thought has drifted off to landscapes and abstract ideas far removed from the birds you were discussing just moments before. For a brief second, you consider reaching for a cigarette when you spot the unmistakable packet of Lucky Strikes in the pocket of his jacket, your hand hovers just above his chest, but at the last moment, you decide against it.

Instead, you shift slightly, adjusting the way you’re sitting and nestling closer to him. You rest your head languidly against his shoulder, and though you can’t see his face from where you’re lying, Henry’s cheeks flush a faint shade of pink. You can’t know this, but Henry is internally glad that you cannot see his face right now.

You take his hand in yours. You don’t let yourself overthink it -you just do it, before hesitation can creep in. Thankfully, Henry doesn’t pull away. Instead, he squeezes your hand in return and lowers his head to press a kiss to your forehead. Whatever trace of cold you might have felt has long since vanished -without needing a blanket, or tending the fire. A quiet warmth has wrapped itself around you, sinking into your bones, born entirely from the closeness of Henry’s body against yours.

And so the remaining hours slip by, just like that, until Francis and the twins start shouting that dinner is ready. Your fingers are still intertwined, and Henry is still speaking -about everything and nothing- while you simply nod now and then, or let out the occasional hum of acknowledgement between the rhythm of his words.

[coochiequeens]

Women's history just got richer

By Mindy Weisberger, CNN

More than 1,000 years ago, carvers in what is now Denmark set their chisels to rock to etch runestones — monuments to Viking leaders naming their deeds and achievements. Two groups of runestones mention a woman named Thyra, and new analysis of the carvings suggests that the runes on both sets of stones were inscribed by the same artisan and refer to the same woman: a Viking queen of considerable power.

Researchers from Denmark and Sweden used 3D scans to analyze carvings on the runestones, finding telltale clues that marked the individual style of the person who carved them. That carver’s repeated mention of Thyra’s name — a rare occurrence for Viking-era women — suggested that Thyra was a powerful sovereign who likely played a pivotal role in the birth of the Danish realm, the scientists reported Wednesday in the journal Antiquity.

“To learn more about the rune-carver and those named on the stone is fascinating,” said Dr. Katherine Cross, a lecturer at York St. John University in the UK who researches and teaches the history of early medieval northern Europe. She was not involved in the study.

“We can only understand early medieval sources once we can think about who made them and why,” Cross told CNN in an email.

One set of runes came from a pair of monuments known as the Jelling stones, erected in the town of Jelling around 965. The larger Jelling stone is often referred to as “Denmark’s birth certificate,” as it’s the first monument to name the land as its people pivoted to Christianity, according to the National Museum of Denmark in Copenhagen.

Both Jelling runestones also named a royal figure: Queen Thyra, mother of then-reigning King Harald Bluetooth. The smaller stone was raised in her honor by her husband (and Harald’s father) King Gorm, calling her “Denmark’s strength/salvation” (or “Denmark’s adornment,” depending on the translation, the researchers noted in the study). Harald commissioned the larger stone, to honor both of his royal parents.

In another set of four Viking-era monuments, known collectively as the Bække-Læborg group, two runestones mention a woman named Thyra. Those stones are associated with a carver named Ravnunge-Tue, but experts disagreed on whether that Thyra was Harald’s mother, said lead study author Dr. Lisbeth Imer, a curator and senior researcher at the National Museum of Denmark specializing in the study of runes and ancient inscriptions.

Before the new investigation, it was unknown who had carved the Jelling stones. Confirming that their carver was Ravnunge-Tue would strengthen the connection between the Jelling and Bække-Læborg runestones, Imer told CNN in an email.

“Then it is much more reasonable to suggest that it was in fact the same Thyra,” she said.

A question of style

Some details in ancient runestones that indicate a carver’s individual style are visible to a trained expert’s eye, such as the language or the basic shape of the runes. Other details are harder to detect, Imer said.

“What you cannot see with the naked eye is the carving technique,” she said.

To get a closer look at the carvings, the researchers took scans of the stones and created 3D digital models, then measured the runes’ grooves with a software tool that weighed variables such as angle, depth and cutting rhythm. Together, these variables can create a unique profile for a carver.

“Every rune carver develops his own motor skill and holds the tools in a certain angle, strikes with a certain strength,” Imer said. “The motor skill is individual and other individuals cannot copy that.”

When the researchers compared runes from Jelling 2 (the larger of the two Jelling stones) and the Læborg stone from the Bække-Læborg group, they found striking similarities, such as height of the runes, straightness of the main staves and length and placement of rune branches.

“In the Læborg and Jelling inscriptions you can follow the cutting rhythm of Ravnunge-Tue as one deep stroke of the chisel followed by two not so deep ones: DAK, dak-dak, DAK, dak-dak,” Imer said via email. “It is ALMOST like hearing the heartbeat of a person that lived so long ago.”

Jelling 1 was more eroded, so its markings were harder to analyze. But if the Læborg runestone was Ravnunge-Tue’s handiwork, Jelling 2 was likely his as well, Imer said. It would mean that the Queen Thyra mentioned twice in the Bække-Læborg group — on Læborg and on the stone Bække 1 — was the same person commemorated on the Jelling stones, the study authors concluded.

In recent years, archaeologists have revised prior interpretations of Viking warrior burials as exclusively male, finding that Viking women were fighters, too. The new findings add to the picture of influential Viking women holding prominent roles in statecraft as well as on the battlefield.

“This research highlights how Viking-Age women wielded power through political authority and patronage, not just violence,” Cross said.

What’s more, the fact that Thyra is mentioned on four runestones offers strong evidence of her importance, Imer added. Fewer than 10 runestones in Denmark from the pre-Christian era mention women at all — and four of those are of Queen Thyra.

“Runestones in Denmark were mostly erected in honour of men, but Thyra is commemorated on more runestones than any other person in Viking Age Denmark,” Imer said. “She must have held extreme power and social position.”

Mindy Weisberger is a science writer and media producer whose work has appeared in Live Science, Scientific American and How It Works magazine.

[sauce-salad-bowl]

welcome to my blog! [ao3]

requests: ★ OPEN ★

hi, i’m sauce!

when i have time, i try to write fanfic! you can check out my stuff here on ao3! (๑>◡<๑)

this blog is basically just dedicated to my undertale fics. we serve sans x reader here, sir.

i’m working on a big project now called promises on the reaping (aka POTR) but i also do one shots :D

undertale was my fixation in 2015 and ten whole years later i’m back to it. and now im determined to make up for all the fanfiction i was too afraid to write when i was 11 lol

i selfship with sans, so if u wanna see fics/random thoughts about that, then ur in the right place 🪱

my askbox is open!

+ have an imagine with your fave skelly that you want to see? or a drabble that’s been on your mind? i can write it for you!

+ i can do basically any version of sans! im not a total expert on all AUs, so i might get a couple canon details wrong. they’re ultimately my interpretation of the character

+ replies will vary wildly in length, lol. pls no paps requests!

+ nsfw is okay! anything too wild (or too long) may be moved to ao3 so i can properly tag it

+ or, if you have questions or thoughts about my fic, PLEASE SEND THEM MY WAY!!

my stuff (on tumblr):

+ nightmare x sick!reader

+ author!sans x videogame!reader

+ sans x unsuspecting subway passenger

just a couple things:

+ i’m bisexual and nonbinary, a socialist/communist, and in college, so sometimes i can get a little busy

+ i use she/they pronouns. feel free to call me sauce, or saucey, or sauced if you’re nasty, or honestly whatever you’d like! please make sure to use feminine/neutral descriptors for me!!

+ minors DNI, this blog talks about nsfw stuff.

+ ppl who post “darkships” (i.e. depictions of incest, pedophilia) DNI. i don’t care abt what ppl do on the internet, and im not pro-censorship, but to curate my online experience safely, i don’t want anything to do w/ it.

+ reach out to me to be moots!! my dms are always open, im always down to chat and meet new friends, esp fellow selfshippers!!

thanks for being here ╰(*´︶`*)╯♡

[sweetbabymantykes]

How do you keep habitats for swamp-dwelling pokémon like Clodsire or Whiscash appropriately... "swampy"?

I've recently come into possession of an Alolan Muk. I'm trying to figure out what sort of habitat it needs online, but all I've found is someone talking about "sludge ponds".

How do you figure out what sort of purity to keep the swamps at? I know she's supposed to eat trash, but I don't want her habitat to just be an uncleaned pool. Do you have to clean the swamps at the aquarium?

Well, uh...Muk is a bit of a special case. For most 'swamp' habitats we make, the most important factor is the substrate. Clodsire and Whiscash specifically require mud-bottom habitats, which means we bring in a lot of silty soil and leaf litter to make sure their environments are accurate and the water's acidity is high enough. Getting the right plants in there too really helps minimize the amount of work that needs to be put in filtering and cleaning the water, most of the cleaning we do of the wetland exhibits involves pruning plants and rotating leaf litter and adding peat moss, but most of this advice isn't particularly helpful with the Muk family.

The thing about Muk, and especially Alolan Muk, is that they feed off of human pollution. The 'sludge pools' in question are usually full of this- trash, oil, chemicals, industrial sludge. And to that end you really can't keep anything else in there, ideal living conditions for Muk are toxic to everything except the most resilient poison types. It's great that you want to do better for your Muk in terms of food, but if they aren't fed something with a diet of enough heavy metals and toxic chemicals- the chemicals are especially important for Alolan Muk, the reactions is where they get a lot of their energy- they get aggressive and destructive, and then they get sick.

I'm not an expert on poison types, but given the conversations I've had with other competitive trainers, you can at least curate the type of garbage your friend eats. The fancy curated diet one of my IRL friends feeds their Alolan Muk consists of cadmium paint, industrial pesticide, and batteries (charged and dead). Kind of expensive, but this is a diet for a high-level competitively-trained Muk, so given that it's still in the same ballpark of other high-level diet costs. I'm not sure how you plan to train your Muk, but I think this diet is a pretty good base to build off of. Paint, household chemicals, and scrap metal generally aren't difficult to come by. And if that doesn't satisfy them, give your local sanitation department a call and see if they're looking for help with waste disposal- I'm sure your Muk would be more than happy to help.

[historical-fashion-polls]

Hi Curator!

I love popping in to see the new polls! Just a question, not sure if you have answered this one but I couldn't find an answer. What made you interested in Historical fashion? Was it always a hobby? You always have so much information and detail to provide, I love it!

Thank you!

hi dear anon! 💕

thank you so much for this lovely message and this super fun question! ☺️☺️

to be honest, I'm not sure if I could point to any one thing that made me interested in historical fashion. I really enjoyed American Girl dolls when I was younger (my favorite was Felicity ☺️), and those are definitely focused around interpreting history/historical fashion, so that could certainly be one reason! 💖💖

I also watched a lot of period pieces with incredible costuming (or at least costumes that I thought were really pretty) during my formative years, so that probably influenced me too. some notable examples are:

The Young Victoria (2009) – the gold dress with the red roses that she wears at the ball had me in a chokehold as a pre-teen

Pride and Prejudice (1995) – regency fashion isn't always my favorite, but this series is just sooooooooo good and it's one of my comfort shows, and I just feel like the costuming and the whole vibe of the series is very lovely and immersive (also not to start discourse but the 1995 version is the superior adaptation, I know that the 2005 film has folks on this website in a chokehold but the 1995 version is far better I have to speak my truth 😤😤)

Downton Abbey (2010-2015) – yeah I was and still am a Downton Abbey girlie, y'all. I watched the first couple seasons on dvds from the the library and I think I caught up with it "live" so to speak in the third season. I've seen the whole series twice now and I just love it. and the costumes are EXQUISITE 😍😍 Mary's turquoise and gold dress is absolutely [incomprehensible screaming]

btw I'm putting images of the gold ball gown and turquoise/gold dress below the cut in case you want to see ☺️☺️

I think the more I saw of fashion history, the more entranced by it I became, and I just wanted to learn more! I'm also a huge fan of many of the historical costume youtubers like Bernadette Banner, and I watched a lot of videos like that in undergrad just to expand my knowledge on the subject

plus, running this blog has helped me learn so much, and I've come to appreciate some styles that I used to not like as much! I'm still definitely not an expert, but I love learning about things that bring me joy, and historical fashion is definitely one of those things! 🥰🥰

thank you so much again for this lovely question and for giving me an excuse to ramble about my love for fashion history! ☺️💕 and now I'll turn the question to you and anyone else who wants to answer: what made you interested in historical fashion and/or what brought you to the blog?

[reverieaudios]

Hi!! I’ve just basically binged half your channel over the past few weeks.

I’m a new voice actor/audio creator (started last December) and I’ve curated a nice following over on Reddit and I’ve been having a ton of fun!!! Seriously, I’ve never hyper fixated so hard on anything else in my life, I’m basically living and breathing this shit rn.

But, my big goal, is to start a channel like yours. You, Redacted Audio, and dervampireprince are my biggest inspos. All of y’all are quadruple threats: writing, voice acting, editing, artistic design!!!!

It hits all of my interests and I think that’s why I’m falling so in love with audios.

I’m treating my current channel as experimentation, but eventually want to have a channel like yours dedicated to a universe.

What did the starting point of coming up with your characters and story look like? You’ve probably gotten similar questions before, but I guess I’d like to ask in the context of being a new audio creator.

I apologize for the wall of text, I tend to ramble, but thank you for your time reading 🙏🙏🙏

Hi! I'm glad to hear you've been enjoying my work, thank you!

My answer is really long so I'll put it under the cut

As for coming up with my universe, the simple answer is a lot of daydreaming lol.

The more complicated answer is to create something that you yourself want to see. Interested in high fantasy? Sci fi? Historical fiction? A mix of them all? That's a good place to start! Honestly, I've been coming up with stories and different fictional universes for a long time (come from a family of writers lol). Every time the premise started really small, and I gradually added onto it. It may start with "hey wouldn't it be cool if xyz" or "I wanna see a world where trees are sentient and they make humanity staying alive very difficult" and then slowly adding onto it

Really the best advice I could give is to find something that you yourself want to read, or watch, or listen to, no matter how vague it may be, and then let yourself play with it. Let your mind wander, listen to music if it helps, make some playlists, make a word doc and just word vomit all over it, and most importantly ask yourself a ton of questions about it. After you have the big ideas, it's the small/mundane things that add believability to the world. That doesn't necessarily mean you need to go full Tolkien and explain every tiny detail about how things work in your world, though lol

For example, my current universe is, for the most part, modern/urban fantasy. There are fantasy elements that coexist with the modern "normal" world. From there you have to ask yourself things like:

Is everyone magical in some way? If not, how common is it to be magical?

If there are non-magical people, are they aware of the magical world? If not, what measures are in place to either prevent non-magical people from finding out, or taking care of it if they do find out? Is anything done at all?

What does an expert in whatever magical fields look like?

What groups of people are there? What conflicts exist between different groups, what past or present major events might have to do with those conflicts?

How do people's powers work? What drawbacks are there to their powers? (I'd recommend pretty much always having some form of drawback to balance out strengths, especially magical/paranormal ones)

Those are just a few examples lol

For me, populating the world with characters typically involves a need. There's a role that needs to be filled. That can be a literal role, like "hey I have this magical bookstore and I need someone to run it, what kind of person would be interesting for that"

It can be "I need to be able to explain to the audience how this bit of the world works, so I need a character that's involved in it that can show them"

It can also just be "hey wouldn't it be fun if a werewolf worked in an animal shelter" and then making a character to fill that role

Hopefully this made sense, I'm very sleep deprived so this could be just incomprehensible babbling lmao

If you have any more questions feel free to ask, and good luck!