#its Scandal Savage

[babygirl-but-a-boy]

DC PAY FOR MY FUCKING Therspy bill istg

[dc-tournaments]

Why do they deserve to win?

Scandal Savage

Nubia

[mooishbeam]

『♡』 In the Ring

♡ featuring: boxer!wriothesley x manager!reader

♡ summary: its hard managing a boxer full time. maybe it's time you relieve that stress. wc: 6.8k+ (???>":>?)

♡ cw/tw: mentions of trauma, mentions of violence, rough sex, overstim, face-sitting, size kink, unintentional edging, hair pulling, mentions of choking, argument, confessed feelings, slow burn, kinda toxic?

notes: can u tell how down bad i am for wriothesley. also do yall like the smaller text cause I do. jing yuan fluff next :)) art by sxnalien on twitter! <3 comments and reblogs are appreciated!

For a second, the crowd stills. Bright intense lamps illuminate the sweltering squared circle, buoyant under the nimble movement of the boxers. They trade blows, bobbing and throwing each devastating hook with an even deadlier counter. No one took a hit for the past minutes, and the audience scoots to the edge of their seats at the sheer stamina of the two. Both dripping sweat, barely holding on between the merciless clock and their steadfast opponent. You can almost hear the breeze of swift jabs cutting wind against their jaws. The one with blue gloves can barely manage to guard himself, with a swollen face and wobbly legs, while the crimson gloves deal relentless punches. The crowd shouts. Unintelligible echoes, some that pray for the win, others grieving the money they’re about to lose. He’s caught on the ropes, and attempts a wild swing to save himself, to save his career. Red gloves weaves effortlessly and delivers a brutal crush to his bloodied nose and possibly busted mouthpiece. The crack is resounding, it makes the commentators cringe. His skull flies back, and he comes crashing down from his dizzying tower. The head-first fall vibrates beneath the feet of investors in proximity. 

DING DING DING 

Mass uproar ensues. They jump out of their seats, flailing their arms, joy and pain in equilibrium. 

“And he is out! It’s all over!” the commentator yells. Confetti floats golden dust from the ceiling. The victor stalks the ropes before hopping on them, his gloves raised in the air. Glistening, high off elation, but somehow composed in his attitude, akin to a wolf. 

“A savage knockout from the untouchable world champion, the king of the ring, Wriooothesley!” 

“Wrio, Wrio, Wrio!” they chant. You’re standing near the ropes, already identifying which joints you’ll need to observe after his victory lap. It’s hectic, and you’re jotting down the state of his figure. Past experiences sew through each deep scar carving his rugged biceps and abs, the bruises display early signs of discoloration. He’s tall on the unseen throne, it feels like you’re there with him. A million eyes in that vast stadium, and yet, those midwinter eyes ebbed in silver only look at you.  

Your beginnings as a manager were tumultuous. You could barely comprehend how out of your league you were working for a renowned agency fresh out of college. Though you found quick success in your ability to grab the attention of investors through public relations, you weren’t equipped just yet with the hindsight in preparing for scandals. The other athletes you worked with served no problem, and so you never had to worry about their appeal. Higher ups praised your extensive portfolio, and at such a young age, it was even more commendable. You earned it, fame and respect, interviews and gossip—a delicate dance. You were always busy, assisting your clients throughout the day and maintaining their presence while they slept. It was hard work, but you loved doing it. 

That was until you worked with amateur boxer, Childe. 

A snappy, overconfident lightweight fighter with no regard for anything or anyone. He had an unmistakable void in his eyes, but you fought for him ceaselessly, to prove that he wasn’t the cold person he portrayed himself as. You bore with his flirtatious compliments and innuendos, the need to focus him whenever you documented his afflictions, and he’d not-so-subtly flex his biceps. Childe was unnecessarily violent with underhanded tactics. The media knew this and did everything to amplify that bellicose story. You’d combat it, negate it, but he only fed the flames with threats of retaliation. Taking his phone wasn’t enough, and you couldn’t get through to him. It was only a matter of time before he went off the deep end.  

The day you slept, you discovered a restlessness you’d endure indefinitely. The flickering glow of your device woke you at midnight as hundreds of notifications congested your screen. 128 missed calls from your agency, 50 from news sources, and none from Childe. When you processed the damage from his deplorable stunt, you nearly hurled your phone out the window. He posted revenge porn, and evidently turned off his phone. Surely, there’d be a way to fix this. The chances seemed to dissolve with each text turning green. You started pacing, battling with morality and loyalty and anger. What he did was disgusting, but it’s your job to save him, right? Is he worth saving? You spoke with 4 managers at once, switching through motives and bickering until morning. As you flipped through the television, another emotion struck you. 

There he was, on a tasteless gossip channel. An interview you didn’t arrange, with a man you’ve never seen before. And he was...crying? The sob story emitting from his deceitful lips was almost impressive. Childe went on about how “demanding and horrible” you were backstage. The crocodile tears dried up through dodgy anecdotes, but it was enough to have people hooked. You were allegedly physically and emotionally abusive. He was too scared to speak up due to your position and he just couldn’t bear it any longer. Then he dropped the bomb; he blamed you for his post. You forced him to do it, jealous of his previous partners, emphasizing how enamored you were of him. The questionable tears began to fall again, but this time he covered his mouth, withholding the duping smile crawling on his face.  

You were filled with blinding rage, unable to control the fury at which your remote connected with the screen. It was everywhere now, social media websites booming with live opinions. He had no reason to slander you, and you couldn’t pinpoint why he chose to hurt you like this. You cried for him, shared stories of childhood and family. The knife you used to protect him was firm in your back, twisting and digging with each disgusting message in your inbox. You had no game plan to conduct, and no tears left to cry.  

Within a week, you finally understood how cruel this industry could be. Within a week, you were no longer on top. You lost clients fast. It spread like wildfire and not a single outlet spared an ear for your side. People you called friends, coworkers, hadn’t replied to your messages. When you got back to work, the rooms were silent as you passed. You could feel their judgement, whispers rattled with rumors and accusations. They waited for the tiniest slip-up and pounced like hyenas—you were eaten alive by their pitiful stares. You attempted to tell your truth multiple times throughout the week, but it was consistently rejected. The headlines were eye-catching: 

“Manager From Hell: Childe Tells All!” 

“He Cries: A Story of Love and Jealousy” 

Your stomach churned to the magazines being shown. Despite the great amount of loss you suffered, you were thankful for the one person that believed you, your boss. 

“Childe is a lying little snake. The media knows that, too.” 

“Then why is this happening?” 

“Money. That story is making bank right now. But I know for a fact you wouldn’t do this” he reassured.  

“Thank you, sir. But...I lost everything; I just don’t know what to do.” The weariness was heavy in your voice. 

“I have someone you can manage. It won’t be easy, but if anyone can do it, it’s you.” You were unsure of yourself now, and he continued.  

“You’re one of my best. If you want to climb out of this, now’s your chance.” Yes, you were unsure, drowning in doubt. But if the only way to get above water was to keep swimming, you wouldn’t give up so easily. 

Wriothesley wasn’t exactly known for his kindness. Crude, cocky, maybe even spoiled were descriptions that circulated in the tabloids. He had a knack for pissing reporters off by not answering questions or humming over their voice with a shit-eating grin on his face. Women loved him, however, throwing bras and phone numbers written on scrap as the condemned “bad boy” departed post-game. They screamed his name at once, and he’d done nothing to deserve it. He relished infamy—that way, it was much harder to pry into his private life. 

It had to be a coincidence that it was someone you fangirled over. In college, your eyes were glued to the screen every Sunday, waiting for Wriothesely’s post-conference and behind the scenes interviews. He didn’t speak often, but just the sight of those inky strands streaked with ash made your heart flutter featherlight in your chest. 

When you first approached him, he was just as arrogant as you’d expect. 

“Good evening!” you beamed. You caught him outside the gym, and he still had his headphones in. Full volume and blankly staring as you went on about the opportunity, silent under the blaring music. He took one earbud out when you finished. 

“Hm? Who’re you?” 

You were slightly annoyed. “Let me reintroduce myself, I’m (Y/N). Your new manager.” 

“No. Bye.” He began to walk past you without an ounce of care. You couldn’t lose it like this. 

“Ah, wait!” He turned half-heartedly. 

“Listen, I get it. You don’t want to be bossed around. But honestly, your reputation is shit. That can’t be good for business.” you persuaded. He towered over you, the figure of a Greek giant peeked through the compression top as he lazily watched you. 

“So? Why do you care?” he remarked. 

“I’ll help you. Sponsors, advertisements, whatever you want. You’re good, but you can be so much better. Let’s make money together.” You held your hand out, awaiting a handshake of approval. He merely glanced at your limp wrist. 

“Help? You’re obviously not doing this for free.” 

“Of course not. Give a little, take a little. I don’t do charity cases” you shrugged.  

He groaned, raking his fingers through his thick mane. At the very least, he hadn’t walked away yet. “I'd prefer for my life to be private.” 

“Then I’ll guarantee your privacy.” 

“Really?” he scoffed. “What can you give me besides empty promises?” 

“Anything you desire. Work with me, and I’ll make it happen.” That offer enticed him. No one had been this persistent with him yet, he scared off any manager that dared succor him. It was slightly entertaining, the way you burned ambition in your eyes, you were so easy to read. Most people wouldn’t look directly at him, and here you were, ready to follow him home if that’s what it took. He chuckled, and his massive hand reached for yours. 

You shook hands, and your fates were sealed.  

That was a year ago, and ever since then he’s been a thorn in your side. Nonstop drama and rectifying consumed your life. You didn’t think a man who spoke so little in public could talk so much around you. Whenever you argue—which is a frequent occurrence—his smirk grew wider at your frustration. You weren’t sure why you ever liked him in the first place. He only puts in effort when it comes to sparring, but you’re determined to ameliorate his standing, and in turn, yours.  

The minute you open the doors to the hall, the sound of pummeled sandbags, clanking metal, and sneakers skidding across the floor roars in your ears. Some men are dialed in on abusing the inanimate objects, the rest tense through repetitions of dumbbell curls with a hiss. You're in quick strides, the phone arm's length away from you as the sponsor on the other end screams. Another petty drama surrounding Wriothesley grabs the attention of the internet. Luckily, you have thorough experience remedying this. 

“What are you going to do? You’re fucking with my money!” you hear the faint voice. You bring the phone back to your ear. 

“Don’t I always deal with it? He fights, I make up for the other half. Give me a few hours.” 

“I’m not going to wa-” You hang up at the response. 

You propel the double doors free into a large room with a boxing ring in the center. A group of trainers swarm the perimeter, you can barely see through.  

“Don’t be scared!” one of them taunt towards the sparring partner, who has an unthinkable panic creeping in goosebumps dotting his skin. Each sloppy dodge tilts him more and more off balance against the strikes. Wriothesley has a powerful stature, with his back curving in a way that accentuates the rough muscle shaping his spine. You drone an annoyed sigh at the commotion and push yourself through them.  

“Move it, move!” you yell, before jostling your way to the front of the ring. 

“Wriothesley! Times up.”  He turns his head to the side, unintentionally sparing his partner and glares at you. 

“Two minutes.” 

“No. Now.” you command. He looks up at nothing, as if considering his options if he cusses you out. Then he begrudgingly drops the gloves and pulls himself under the ropes. The group disperses from the lack of action and he’s mere inches from you now. Sometimes you forget how to breathe in his half-naked presence.  

“What the fuck is your problem?” He mumbles while drying his head with a towel. His colossal forearms are raised over his head, highlighting the happy trail thick down his abdomen and tufts of hair on his armpits.  

“You. How many times do I have to tell you not to train during recovery?” you seethe. 

“Damn. Must’ve slipped my mind.” He doesn’t sound convincing in the slightest. 

“Well then, I’ll be sure to remind you hourly.” 

“Nah, I’m good. Hearing you once a day is enough.” He tosses the towel to you like his dutiful servant and grabs his water bottle. The liquid drips down his chin and on his shorts, hanging below his v-line. 

Your eyebrow twitches from withheld vexation. “If you don’t want to hear me twice, I suggest you do what I tell you. We need to talk.” A heavy sigh leaves him as he stretches, and he passes you the water bottle. If you had the strength to collapse the bottle with one hand, you would. “Lead the way” he goads. 

Wriothesley follows you through the backdoor of the gym to a secluded alleyway. When you get there, he immediately pulls out a cigarette you didn’t know he had. You were aware he smokes occasionally, but seeing it physically coaxed a strange worry in your gut. You twist your phone to him, to display evidence of him instigating an argument with Childe on social media. He reads in silence, briefly laughing at the recollection of his own comebacks, then lights the cigarette. 

“What’s this? Didn’t I say keep a low profile?” you reprimand. 

He drags in a deep breath of nicotine, and you eye the foul scent with distaste. He blows it above your unhappy face. “Calm down. Once a month thing. That fucker's testing me.” 

“This can’t happen again, Wriothesley.” He ignores you to continue his mumbling. “I should break his neck like a twig. He’s lucky he didn’t say that shit to my face, fucking punk.” he grouses. You're struggling to gather your thoughts, the cigarette compacted between his thick fingers irritates you. 

“We all appreciate your restraint, however-” you get closer, and yank the stick out his hand. 

 “No-!” Before he can finish, you promptly smudge it underneath your shoe. You aren’t sure how he’d react, but you didn’t expect him to sulk like a puppy. 

“You aren’t doing this shit while I’m here.” 

“Oh my god” he pouts, throwing his hands into his face and pulling them down.  

“You’re lucky I don’t report it to the doctor. None of this, ever again.” 

“Fuck, alright just...” he lets out a defeated sigh. “What do you want me to do about it? Apologize publicly?” You need him to do nothing; neither agency wants controversy, and it’d most likely be swept under the rug in just a couple days. You point his water bottle to him. 

“Nope, I’ll handle it. Just sit there and be pretty.” you reassure. He leans down to your height with a sweet smile and even sweeter gaze. 

“I do that well, don’t I?” he quips. 

“You manage.” He latches onto the water bottle, and drinks from it in your hand while looking at you. A soft heat envelops you beyond words that never reach your lips. 

“Listen to what I’m saying. Low. Profile.” Wriothesley comes up from thirst, dragging his tongue along the straw to the top, and licks his blushed lips. He delights in your flustered reaction. 

“Low. Profile.” he repeats in a sarcastic drawl. 

Later in the week, you receive a call in your office. It was fairly busy today, with coworkers constantly “checking in”, more so to see Wriothesley sitting across from you. He had no reason to be here, and you were surprised at his arrival. Be it boredom or a certain longing, a dull swell pulsed in his chest once he saw your overworked smile. 

“Hello, this is (Y/N) of Boxe Association. May I know who I’m speaking with?” Wriothesley’s ears perk up at your sudden professionalism, and he mimics your cadence. 

“Good afternoon, it’s Isadora.” Isadora was an event coordinator you previously worked with before your controversy. You understood that she stopped communicating to protect her business, but the pain lingered. You twirl the phone cord around your fingers, and meet eyes with Wriothesley, who’s laid back in the chair, his arms behind his head. 

“Oh. Hey, it’s been a while.” you say. You turn your swivel chair away from him to continue the conversation. His eyebrow twitches slightly with an unconscious scowl, and he walks towards your chair. 

“It has. I’m calling because I have a proposition that might interest you. I believe a meet and greet would be appropriate for your client. A large chunk of his fanbase are young adult women, however, he’s also popular with children.” He spins the chair around with a firm hand and presses his cheek against the phone. 

“That’s true.” You side eye him, and without skipping a beat, mush his nosey face away. His hot breath on your digits makes your skin tingle. 

“Who is that” he mumbles. You'd never seen Wriothesley interact with children, and you have every reason to be hesitant. 

“Hmm...any positive activity with children is good publicity. I’ll consider it. I’ll let you know by tonight.” The second you hang up, you release his face. 

“Why are you being annoying-” 

“Who were you talking to” he chides.  

“Isadora. She’s an event coordinator.” His clenched jaw unwinds. “She wants to do a meet and greet with you and a few kids. If we go through with this, I’ll have a camera crew and some reporters there. It’ll be good for your image.” 

“Okay.” he agrees. That was quick.  

“...Are you sure? Kids are loud and obnoxious a lot of the time.” 

“So? Fine by me. I can teach them how to fight.” Your skin crawls at the thought of Wriothesley launching a child through a wall. “That won’t be necessary.” 

“It’ll be fun.” The more he assures you, the more uneasy you feel. 

“Wriothesley, I’m serious. Don’t screw this up” you plead. He holds his pinky out. “I won't.” His loose interpretation of promises was dubious at best, but you had no other options, and this might be your only opening. You curl to his word. 

After parleying the finer details, you broadcast a raffle for young fans to meet Wriothesley. The traffic to the website was overwhelming, and you quickly began sorting out tickets for the favored winners. 

 Fortunately, the next couple of weeks were par for the course. 

It’s the night before the event, and you’re getting ready for bed. You sit at your desk in a big T-shirt and do your daily review of personal data. As you're scrolling through and identifying what needs improvement, you get a notification on your phone. 

“Breaking News: Boxer Bar Fight!” Curious, you open the tab to a video. It makes your breath stall, sweating frantically. You can’t think clearly, and your shaky hands can barely increase the volume. Unidentifiable noises and wobbly camerawork made it impossible to catch anything besides those familiar inky black strands, throwing punches in a drunken stupor at a defenseless man. Your previous conundrum flashes through your memory in a horrific stop-motion; the duping smile on his face. 

No. It’s happening all over again. Why is he at a bar? You messaged him before he went to bed. He never goes to bars. Why now, the night before the event? It’s late, he doesn’t go anywhere without telling you. 

He promised. 

None of it made sense as you threw on any sweatpants in your drawer and ran out the door. You can’t wait until morning. Disaster punctures and tears any rational decision you contemplate. Shouting silently within your mind, a crashing rage—or sadness—boils in your nervous stomach. You’re tunnel vision in a taxi on the way to his address. 

When you get there, you bang on the door with a fury that vibrates throughout the archway. His home is extravagant, with two cars and an expansive driveway. You bang again. 

“Wriothesley!” He finally opens the door. He’s still half asleep, pajama pants low on his waist, groggily leaning against the arch.  

“(Y/N)? Uh, what’s up?” He slurs in a deep slumbering voice through heavy eyelids. You barge in without saying anything. “Make yourself at home, I guess.” 

The interior is just as opulent as the exterior, it almost looks untouched. Every corner has a case or shelf stacked with ornate trophies and medals of excellence. It was the home of someone who achieved peak perfection and reveled in it. He follows you to his living room, bewildered at your furious expression. You play the video in front of him, and he watches with that same puzzled attitude that makes you angrier. You try taking deep breaths to compose yourself, but they halt shallowly. 

“What the fuck is this?” you accuse. 

“What? I don’t know.”  “Like hell you don’t know, this shit is on every homepage. Are you serious?”  

The cranky boxer pinches the bridge of his nose and sighs. You show up at his house, and it’s to badger him about a rumor. Your temperament only heats the smoldering ember fueled by incessant claims. He covers his mouth, physically stopping the involuntary response. 

“Okay” he says, and blurts a facetious chuckle. Your heart thumps in your chest and ears.  

“Oh, It’s a fucking joke? I bust my ass to save your career and you’re laughing?” you snap, voice increasing in volume until it reaches a broken peak. He returns with the same energy. 

“When did I ask you to fix anything? Did you ever think that maybe I don’t fucking need you-” 

“You can barely control your smoking habits you pompous ass-” 

“I would if you didn’t nag me all the time. Whining and complaining, it’s fucking annoying!” he yells. Neither of you meant the words spilling out the bubbling surface, but your tongues were solely seasoned with the next spiteful jab. 

“Yes, whining! Because all you need to do is be on the straight and narrow, but you take nothing seriously, Wriothesley, and that’s exactly why-” 

“Exactly why what? Why your career went to shit so you’re piggybacking off mine?”  

Your battle stops. You can’t find the words to rebuttal. All the opinions of your colleagues, the media, Wriothesley, and yourself coagulate into a lump that fills the tightening throat. Pride comforts tears brimming your eyes. 

He pauses, as though he came to reality. An apology attempts to form on his lips, but it never manifests. “(Y/N), I didn’t-” 

“See you in the morning” you choked. You walk to the door, and he reaches out to the infinite space thick between you two.  

You didn’t sleep the entire night. It’s morning, and you’re exhausted. You consistently replayed the quarrel in your head through the taxi ride home, and when you strived for rest, it plagued your mind. Your coffee is untouched during your morning routine, a movement comparable to zombies. You don’t bother to confirm if Wriothesely is at the building—either way you owe it to the event holders to be there. 

You arrive just before the children file into the training room. Thankfully, Wriothesley is there in the center. Live cameras from reporters and parents border the walls; if something were to occur, it would be irreversible. Your head suddenly hurts. 

Perhaps playing it up for his reputation, the smile stretched across his face is a sunny warmth you’ve never seen from him. He waves to them, and they erupt with screams. To your astonishment, he gets on his knees to be eye level with them. They all jump into his arms at once, and he topples over onto the mat.  

And he’s laughing. This grumpy asshole fighter is laughing. A hearty, genuine laugh as he wraps his sturdy arms around all of them and picks them up at once. He whirls them around and they orchestrate high-pitched giggles. “Ready to have some fun?” he chortles. They say yes to varying degrees of excitement, and the meet and greet proceeds. 

You can’t help but smile when he frolics with the kids. They chase him with boxing gloves, he pretends to fall dramatically. Dogpiling him, he lets out a shrill scream of defeat. He manages to work in proper defense techniques while they jump him like a test dummy. He tosses each kid in the air whenever they ask, and never tells them no. You receive another call from Isadora amid your admiration, and you step outside. 

“Hey! Good news, these views are off the charts and the internet is really in his favor right now” she congratulates.  

“That’s great...what about the video from last night? Did you see it?” you ask. 

“Video...oh, that! Don’t worry, it’s confirmed fake.” What? Oh no. Immediate regret stirs in your blood, and you force the phone away to catch your breath. You feel utterly stupid. 

“Hello?” You quickly bring the phone back to your ear. “Yea, sorry. I have to go; I’ll call you later.” you insist. You can’t facepalm any harder. You make your way back to the training room, where the kids decorate his gloves with iridescent stickers. Wriothesley occasionally looks at you, but you can’t bear to show your guilty face. 

When the event is over, you both make sure to hug every child on the way out and thank the parent for coming. You’re sorting through mountains of requests people made to see Wriothesley again, and you mute your phone over the influx of emails. Peeking at the broadcast, under the footage in bold letters:  

“(Y/N) Back from the Dead?”  

It wasn’t the most flattering title, but it proved that public perception was salvageable. You emit a sigh of relief, for you and Wriothesley. As you’re packing your things to exit, he blocks the door with his body. 

“Can we talk?” You were dreading this discussion, but agreed, nonetheless. The ride to his home is silent, you grapple with a proper apology. 

You lean against the kitchen bar, while he’s laxing on the couch. Sleep deprivation torments you, causes you to wander as you fill in papers from sponsors. You can’t see the way Wriothesley steals glances at your slack figure curving to the marble. He eventually spoke.  

“So, um.” 

“I’m sorry, I forgot to tell you. You did a good job today Wriothesley, you should be proud.” You flash a meek smile. He fumbles with his thumbs uncomfortably. 

“I am. Aren’t I the best?” he boasts. 

“You are” you say. The lack of sleep beckons you to a spur of honesty as you scribble. “You have stunning form, perfect accuracy, and immeasurable talent. Not just anyone can do that.” you return. He gazes at you, that dull swell pumping in his veins again. The cozy radiance of lights brightens your tired eyes. 

“You’re a big fan, huh?” he chuckles.  

“Of course, I used to watch you in college. I had a major crush on you” you snort. “Everything you are is amazing, but you know this. So cut it out.” He sits on the armrest, swallowing your confessions. The room is entirely too hot, he needs alleviation—he needs you. 

“Sorry. For what I said.” 

“Forget it. It's my fault, I was careless. I apologize.” you admit. 

“You know I didn’t do it, right?” 

“I know.” 

“I didn’t.” 

“I know.” you reassure.  

“What if some other bullshit controversy comes out. Then what?” You stop writing to give him your full attention. 

“Then, I’ll trust you. We’ve gotten this far. Even if no one else does, even if for some reason I lose my job and I’m not your manager anymore, I’ll trust you, Wriothesley.” you reveal. He doesn’t move. Wriothesley knew he wasn’t deserving of trust, and he’d made a plethora of mistakes throughout your arrangement. You had every right to leave him long ago. Nobody gave him the time of day or cared for his wellbeing like you did, but he couldn’t reciprocate. Even so, here he kneels, at the feet of an angel that shows him undying mercy. 

Wriothesley stalks at you, but you remain. He looms over you, pinning you to the counter with both arms, inches from your face. It isn’t a threatening force, but one that begs for confirmation. That slated storm searches for a specific craving, you feel his chest rising and falling laden with yours. 

“You’re too close” you quiver. The bitter musk and vanilla enveloping your senses makes you foggy, it lingers through the whole house. 

“Tell me to leave.” His mouth slants to you, and he waits expectingly. You ogle his features, the scratches of a warrior celebrated across his hardy torso. His hair brushes against your forehead, imperfect and uniquely beautiful. Why were you mad, again?

“Tell me to back off, (Y/N)” he pleads. The pads of your fingers lightly caress his ear, then his jaw. 

“Please” he whispers. Your thumb grazes his bottom lip, and he succumbs to the urge. 

You collide fervently, lips coated in definitive desire. Dancing with rough, bruising kisses that don’t make space for air. It smears on your face, dips down your neck and swiftly returns to your lonely mouth. The pressure of the counter bar burns across your lower back from his weight, but those mind-numbing kisses soften any injury. You bite his lip when he pulls away, and he groans. Suddenly, he lifts you effortlessly with his hands on your ass, and you clash teeth and tongue in a passionate challenge. He demands entry, and you moan into the wet mass intertwining through sloppy kisses. It explores your mouth, sending throbs to your nerves and subdues any control you have left. Your arms are wrapped around his neck, but you yearn for deeper contact. He licks up the organ, and spots moist, hungry kisses on your jaw. You both take a fleeting breath before converging again. You find passage in his hair and suck staining rose-colored marks on his neck while he carries you to the bedroom. 

“You’ve been waiting for this, hm? Slutty groupie” Wriothesley moans. You drag kisses along the shell of his ear. He tosses you onto the fluffy bedding and haphazardly strips to his underwear. The wide mirror opposite his bed gives you a glimpse of his thighs and shapely bottom hugging the briefs. You’re supposed to be undressing, but that thronging bulge made for a titan makes you nervous for what’s to come. He palms the erection to soothe the ache and climbs over you. He’s somewhat gentle, careful with the bulk of his body as he cradles your face for more kisses. The way he looks at you, a covet softness or misted lust tantalizing the wetness pooling in your panties. He moves to your neck, French kissing down your throat and on your collarbone. You feel like a virgin again, heart racing from every graze of his fingers and lips. His calloused digits grope the plush fat of your thighs, and gradually reach the hem of your skirt. You snake your hands over his pecs and abs and read the muscles. Moaning into each other's mouths, indulging every part of your bodies as you’ve wanted to do for months. He pulls your skirt off and you hold your button-down over your exposed panties. Heat spreads in your body, and he amuses at your sudden bashfulness. 

“Oh…you’re shy?” he teases, before popping the buttons off with a brutal rip. “Wrio!” you yelp. That’s the first time you called Wriothesley a nickname; he must’ve died and went to heaven. The lace gift wrapped around your breasts taunts him, and he buries his face immediately. He nips the sensitive skin and snaps the clasp off. “Cute. Need to feel you” he husks. He twirls the bud in his mouth, while manipulating the other between his girthy fingers. Alternating among loving hickies and harsh tugs of his teeth on your nipple. You whine, and his laugh tickles your raw skin. He flips over on his back and steadies you on top of him. Discards the rest of your top, and let’s out a shaky groan.  

“You’ve never been this speechless” he says. You smile and kiss his puffy lips, your hands kneading his chest. “You’re so pretty” you coo. He huffs while rubbing circles on your waist, eyeing your inner thighs covered in juices.  

“Then come fuck my pretty face.” He slips under the waistband and tweaks the fabric, but you grip his wrists. “Wait! Let me shower first- “ 

“You said you'd give me anything I desire, remember that? Keep your promise." He yanks the thin material down your legs in your weak clutches, trailing a string of drool that sticks to your labia. “C’mere” he grunts and lifts you towards his face. Your thighs are soft on either side of him, and you still in his grasp. He lolls his tongue out, but you’re reluctant to fully sit. “I’m heavy” you murmur.  

“Shut up.” He embraces your body, and you have no choice but to settle in his warmth. He keeps you flush with his flat tongue, swiping up and down the squishy flesh molding to his mouth. You writhe in his grasp, but he continues to lap at your clit with a starving lust. Wriothesely soaks in your velvet skin and perfumed essence dribbling down his chin. He doesn’t come up for air, and your brain is mush over him, his lips slurping your quivering cunt. A buzzing intensity courses through your twitching stomach. You rut your hips against his mouth, and he maintains his position while you use him. You’re grinding on his tongue, absent-mindedly biting your lips and mewling endlessly as you bring yourself closer to climax. He hums while sucking the nub and the vibrations make you cry out.  

“Wrio, ‘m coming” you whine. You hump his mouth until you come undone in a pulsating finish. His hands restrain you, greedily devouring the newly found honey as it pours out. You ride it through while he curls the tip of his tongue at your opening. Without warning, you feel the pink muscle push in your recovering vulva. “S-Shit, Wrio” you whimper, trembling on him as he drives inside. He seizes the back of your thighs and begins to bounce you up and down the mushy appendage slowly stretching you. The sensation is overwhelming, his nose skims your oversensitive clit each time you drop, and you sob. Wriothesley moves faster, your hands entangle in his hair. You babble please’s repeatedly, gazing sensually at each other as the coil winds in your gut. More, more. Then it snaps, an abrupt shock, clenching on his tongue as you cream. He raises your lower half; the wetness collecting in your convulsing heat makes his cock strain more than it already suffered.  

“Such a cute slut” Wriothesley husks. Your numb legs can’t navigate on their own, so he places you on your stomach. “We’re not done.” He springs his throbbing length free. The veins are consistent, prominent up his shaft to the angry red crown—9 inches begging to be inside you. Fresh precome trickles down his tip and he sighs at the bloated pain in his hefty balls. You arch your back, presenting yourself to his awaiting size. When he doesn’t enter you turn to him impatiently and he smirks. 

“Put it in” you whine. Wriothesley spreads your backside, and watches you clench around the ghost of him. He glazes himself with your slick, and moans from the feeling of your puffy lips cuddling his cock. “It’s not every day a fan gets to sleep with me. Be grateful.” he teases. He pumps through your squashed thighs, the head prodding your nub while he forces your chest flush with the bed. After he thoroughly coats himself, he nudges the bulbous tip to your entrance. 

Wriothesley sinks into your sex. You’re gripping him like a vice despite the searing soreness of your body accommodating the scale. The fevered sleeve nearly makes him crash to the hilt, but he stutters gradually to relieve your discomfort. He hits the base and shudders. You feel unbelievably stuffed, as if it’s squirming in your cervix. Then he starts at a savage pace. He’s using you like a flesh-light, balls smacking your overwhelmed tender nub with a carnal impulse. His moans spill uncontrollably as he watches your rippling ass and viscous webs blend together, clinging to his cock and forming a cloudy froth at the base. Your knuckles turn white on the sheets; you can’t think or feel anything that isn’t him, core surging with intense want. 

“Fuck, you’re so tight, gonna snap my dick off. Ah- gonna make sure you can’t walk t-tomorrow. Then- hah- then you won’t be able to find anyone who fucks you like this, who makes you come like this.” He’s rambling and stuttering, completely incoherent the closer he gets. He glances at the mirror, then at you. You feel your hair jerked back by his massive hand, and lock eyes with Wriothesley in his drunken haze. “Stop, it’s embarrassing!” you slur. You’re both sheened with sweat, disheveled bodies satiating the hunger in any way you can. 

“Shh, you hear that?” The squelching slam of passion echoes in the room, sopping down your leg through his pummeling thrusts. Your back bends unnaturally as though it were folded in half. “You’re so fucking hot, so needy for me.” His veins adorn your walls, you start to tear up from the mixture of pleasure and pain. He notices your tears and holds you up so that your back is flush with his chest. 

“It hurts?” he questions, stalling his movement. You feel him twitch. “No, feels s’good Wrio. More” you mewl. He chuckles, and gently wraps his hand around your throat before pumping again.  

“Too good? Am I the best you’ve ever had? Say it.” He moves faster, free hand rubbing your clit. Your knees buckle and eyes roll back to your skull, he takes in the scene of your convulsing figure in the mirror. “S’best I’ve ever had, please ‘m so close!” you rasp, matching the rhythm of his thrusts. He chases his high, panting animalistically in your ear.  

“Shit- look how desperate you are. Want me to come inside? Y-yea, I bet you fucking do”

“‘M coming!” you babble.

“Good. Make a mess.” he commands. Fire trails up your limbs, and you tighten before falling apart. Fluttering around him, taking him deeper while you come on his sack. Wriothesley pursues his sputtering hips, spurting thick globs that paint you white. He whimpers as you milk his spasming length dry and presses tired kisses along your shoulder blade. When he comes down from his apex, he turns you over on your back. It’s hard for him to not be proud of your boneless existence sprawled on his bed. You’re both breathing hard in silence, and he leaves for a couple minutes. You’re stunned when he returns with a damp rag to clean you up, and some dark substance in a mug.

You find the strength to sit up while he wipes your lower areas. “Where are my clothes?”

“...For what?”  he mumbles.

“To leave?” It seemed like common sense to you—boxers usually don’t go for long-term relationships, and so you assumed it to be a one-night stand. You dip over the edge of the bed and locate your skirt, but Wriothesely hops up and snatches it before you can. “I’ll put it in the wash. Relax.” 

“I didn’t know you were so hospitable. Do you do this for every girl?” you tease. He gets visibly upset, and shoves the cup from the dresser in your hands. “Don’t piss me off. Now, drink. I’ll order food.” 

Multicolored sunset flaking through the sheer curtains frames his stature while he’s on the phone. You sip the tea, it’s a vile grainy taste. For a moment you imagine what life could be like with him by your side—poor quality tea and an awful temper. In your pleasant aftermath, it doesn’t seem bad at all.

[tarotbyjam24]

Pick a card : you as a fashion brand

This is a collab between @tarotbyjam24 and @tarotlexa 🎀

Masterlist \pick a piles feedbacks piggy bank

pile 1 [by @tarotbyjam24 ] pile 2 [by @tarotlexa ]

pile 3 [by @tarotbyjam24 ] pile 4 [by @tarotlexa ]

Likes , reblogs and feedbacks are very much appreciated 💗Thankyou for stopping by let's dive in ☄️ Choose the pile you feel most drawn to 🧸

Disclaimer: this is general reading . It may or may not resonate . If reading doesn't resonate let it fly and choose another pile or simply there were no messages for you through this reading 😊 Take the reading lightly as nothing's set in stone until you believe so 🕊️

If you like my work you can now tip me on kofi too ,leave 🖤

I also offer paid readings you can book one as it'll help me a lot and don't forget to check the free readings offer ✨

Exchanges : open , collabs for paps : open

Pile 1

read by @tarotbyjam24

Hermes , Louis Vuitton, victoria secret,american eagle , kate spade. A brand that's aware about nature while producing its products. Your vibes matches with brands that may even have to do something with nature like ecological brands that use waste materials to produce new products. Eco friendly is the word. Brands whose most products are brown like Louis Vuitton and are expensive. A brand which is home grown like bottega veneta an italian brand. A brand that focuses on unusual style and Balenciaga is that brand . Brands which focus on donating some of their funds to girls education or old age home support,etc .

get your personalised readings

Pile 2

read by @tarotlexa

this pile screams ysl to me with its precise silhouettes and tailoring. sex appeal and emotional detachment is also a part core of your brand.

balmain, mugler, haus of labs, a brand that collaborates with skilled artisans like in mugler's case (architectural couture and what not), balenciaga with its controversies, mm6 by margiela, aquazzurra, prada, rebellious but extremely refined, sexy. savage by fenty, la perla (best lingerie ever), agent provocateur.

get your personalised readings

Pile 3

read by @tarotbyjam24

Brandy melvile ,gucci , tory burch ,Stella McCartney, Vivienne Westwood, burberry ,huda beauty , mary kate . Brands that are non violent and justice focused . Brands that often launches their products. Brands that are often wore by upper class people like princess diana. Brands which may often gets their customers exited by launching their spoilers before hand and keeping the suprise for last. Brands that have best customers and employees care.

get your personalised readings

Pile 4

read by @tarotlexa

intoxicating, edgy, scandalous, game changers. pain and pleasure. dark romance themes, controversial. alexander mcqueen (hauntingly beautiful), rick owens (goth luxury), vetements, vivienne westwood. drama, spectacle, intensity, a walking fantasy that knows no bounds, comme des garçons, yohji yamamoto, iris van herpen, alessandro michele's gucci era.

get your personalised readings

I hope you liked the reading . Thank you so much for letting me read for you . Wishing you best ahead . 🎀Bless you and have a nice day🌸🐰 I'd love to hear which pile you chose Loads of love , jam🩷

[tarotlexa]

PICK A PILE- you as a fashion brand!

hello my loves, this is a collab between the wonderful @tarotbyjam24 and me, @tarotlexa

the idea behind this is to give you a few fashion brands that reflect you or your energy as a person.

PILE 1 (by @tarotbyjam24)

Hermes, Louis Vuitton, Victoria's Secret, American Eagle, Kate Spade. A brand that's aware about nature while producing its products. Your vibes matches with brands that may even have to do something with nature like ecological brands that use waste materials to produce new products. Eco friendly is the word. Brands whose most products are brown like Louis Vuitton and are expensive. A brand which is home grown like Bottega Veneta, an Italian brand. A brand that focuses on an unusual style and Balenciaga is that brand. Brands which focus on donating some of their funds to girls education or old age home support, etc.

PILE 2 (by @tarotlexa)

this pile screams ysl to me with its precise silhouettes and tailoring. sex appeal and emotional detachment is also a part core of your brand.

balmain, mugler, haus of labs, a brand that collaborates with skilled artisans like in mugler's case (architectural couture and what not), balenciaga with its controversies, mm6 by margiela, aquazzurra, prada, rebellious but extremely refined, sexy. savage by fenty, la perla (best lingerie ever), agent provocateur.

PILE 3 (by @tarotbyjam24)

Brandy Melville, Gucci, Tory Burch, Stella McCartney, Vivienne Westwood, Burberry, Huda Beauty, Mary Kate. Brands that are non violent and justice focused. Brands that often launches their products. Brands that are often wore by upper class people like Princess Diana. Brands which may often gets their customers excited by launching their spoilers before hand and keeping the surprise for last. Brands that have best customers and employees care.

PILE 4 (by @tarotlexa)

intoxicating, edgy, scandalous, game changers. pain and pleasure. dark romance themes, controversial. alexander mcqueen (hauntingly beautiful), rick owens (goth luxury), vetements, vivienne westwood. drama, spectacle, intensity, a walking fantasy that knows no bounds, comme des garçons, yohji yamamoto, iris van herpen, alessandro michele's gucci era.

as always, thank you for reading <3

reblogs, comments, feedbacks are always appreciated but not expected! much love <33333

[makingqueerhistory]

Harvard's Secret Court: The Savage 1920 Purge of Campus Homosexuals

William Wright

In 2002, a researcher for The Harvard Crimson came across a restricted archive labeled Secret Court Files, 1920. The mystery he uncovered involved a tragic scandal in which Harvard University secretly put a dozen students on trial for homosexuality and then systematically and persistently tried to ruin their lives. In May of 1920, Cyril Wilcox, a freshman suspended from Harvard, was found sprawled dead on his bed, his room filled with gas--a suicide. The note he left behind revealed his secret life as part of a circle of (cut young) homosexual students. The resulting witch hunt and the lives it cost remains one of the most shameful episodes in the history of America's premiere university. Supported by legendary Harvard President Lawrence Lowell, Harvard conducted its investigation in secrecy. Several students committed suicide; others had their lives destroyed by an ongoing effort on the part of Harvard to destroy their reputations. Harvard's Secret Court is a deeply moving indictment of the human toll of intolerance and the horrors of injustice that can result when a powerful institution loses its balance.

(Affiliate link above)

[reveriedraffs]

📜˚｡⋆𐂂 the plot-twist in my marauders dr 🐾⭒˚☽

(a.k.a. how i became hogwarts' most legendary anonymous gossip source)

you know how every era has its little mystery voice that somehow knows everything? in my modern marauders dr, that voice… is me.

but no one knows that. not yet.

🪄 THE TWIST

i secretly run three anonymous newsletters, each with a completely different vibe, voice, and name. people think they’re written by different students—maybe even different years or houses. some say it's a group of writers. others think it's enchanted ink or cursed parchment that writes itself. but nope.

it’s just me. quill in hand. cloak pulled tight. watching everything.

📂 the trifecta: my newsletters

1. Witch, Please

by Lady Noctura 💅 chaotic, glamorous, scandalous. if you kissed someone you shouldn’t have, if your robes are a crime against fashion, or if you tripped walking out of the library and your books spilled and your crush helped you… she knows. she wrote about it. she’s savage. she’s iconic.

2. The Rumour Registry

by The Watcher 🕵️‍♂️ sleek, calculated, a little scary. this one covers the quiet power plays, whispered meetings in the Astronomy Tower, who’s getting cozy with the faculty, and which prefects are playing politics. if there’s leverage to be had—The Watcher already used it. like if gossip girl had a clipboard, or if you fused regina george with a secret service agent.

3. Howl & Hush

by The Archiver 🌘 eerie, poetic, ancient-feeling. they don’t gossip. they warn. they write in metaphors, leave entries in cursed corners of the castle, and sign off in runes that only reveal themselves at midnight. some say their stories are fiction. but then things start coming true. and people realize… they’re not just stories.

🎭 no one knows it's me.

not my friends. not my professors. not even the marauders. (not yet.)

i’ve enchanted the parchment. masked my magical signature. built an entire network of enchanted owl drops, cursed mirrors, and secret tunnels.

they won’t know until after voldemort is gone. until the war is over. until i choose to reveal myself. and when i do— every enchanted paper, every glowing parchment, every screen— they’ll all show one final message:

“it was me. it was always me.”

moony, padfoot, prongs, wormtail

love ౨ৎ

[wlwdcchampionship]

introducing: the round two steal off!!

Has your favorite ship been eliminated in round one? Then listen up!

All eliminated ships from the round of 48 have hereby been entered into THE ROUND 2 STEAL-OFF to fight for a chance to reenter the bracket!

Specifics below the cut!

Here's how it works:

No polls for eliminated ships, you cannot actually vote for them again anywhere (yet). Because they've been eliminated.

However, you are still able to create fanworks for your ship(s) of choice and, providing they're tagged & sent to us appropriately, they will be eligible for Steal Points, accrued via the exact same system as for any ship still in the polls proper. Steals for the steal off will open at the same time as the round two polls on Weds April 16.

At the end of the running time for round 2, points will be counted.

The Steal-Off ship with the most Steal Points will be entered into a 24 hour Sudden Death Poll with the least popular winning ship from the actual round 2 polls (least popular here meaning "ship that won its respective poll by the narrowest margin").

The winner of the Sudden Death Poll will be the ship that progresses to the next round.

There will be no poll stealing mechanic on the Sudden Death Poll, just pure classic votes and propaganda all the way down.

Now I know a fair number of you are thinking: 'this is a blatant ruse to get stephcass back in the running'. However! Given that the entire structure of this bracket has been taken straight from @/lesmisshippingshowdown, a round two steal-off into a sudden death poll was always part of the plan.

The following ships are eligible for the steal-off:

Starfire/Barbara Gordon

Dinah Lance/Queen Mera

Scandal Savage/Liana Kerzner

Diana Prince/Harley Quinn

Alexis Kaye/Harper Row

Tora Olafsdotter/Beatriz da Costa

Maggie Sawyer/Toby Raynes

Tara Markov/Rose Wilson

Cassandra Cain/Stephanie Brown

Jenny Sparks/Shen Li-men

Annisa Pierce/Grace Choi

Maya Sucard/Kathy Branden

Zatanna/Diana Prince

Cissie King-Jones/Greta Hayes

Starfire/Raven

Diana Prince/Queen Mera

Anita Fite/Cissie King-Jones

Rose Wilson/Cassandra Cain

Poison Ivy/Selina Kyle

Helena Bertinelli/Artemis

Selina Kyle/Eiko Hasigawa

Soranik Natu/Princess Iolande

Paige Stetler/Omen

Cassandra Cain/Brenda

[aamputation]

SVSSS AU ... Benevolent System 0.7

[Shen Yuan][Shang Qinghua] | [1st] <--> [6th]

Liu Qingge, the infamous War God of Bai Zhan Peak, moves through the dense forest like a shadow, his eyes sharp and unblinking as they scan the underbrush. As he stalks through the lush forest, the scent of damp earth and brine rises as each step stirring the air, prompting his senses to widen. His grip on Chen Luan tightens with each step, fingers flexing on the hilt as the familiar weight grounds him as he continues his hunt.  His target, the Vermillion Fanglancer, has been terrorizing the nearby towns for weeks, and Liu Qingge has been tasked with hunting it down. It’s a task he’s more than eager to take on, and more than capable of completing—nothing in this forest can stand against the weight of his strength and experience. 

The Vermillion Fanglancer is close—there are too many signs of where its heavy, scaled body has moved through the underbrush—but instead of his expected quarry, he stumbles across something a bit more unexpected.

A flash of movement catches his attention where it flickers through the thick foliage and he spots the beast. The Vermillion Fanglancer—a grotesque hybrid of red deer and deadly lizard—stands in a small clearing near a rocky outcrop, its sleek scales catching the pale sunlight filtering down through the heavy canopy above. Its antlers, cruel and gleaming like jagged spears, sway gently with the wind. Its tail, tipped with a poisonous, paralytic barb, sways behind it, and for a moment, Liu Qingge’s instincts flare, his hand instinctively tightening around his sword. He is poised to move, to strike, to end the threat.

But then his gaze falls on the figure standing alongside the creature.

A man—no, a cultivator—stands casually next to the beast. His clothes are simple, unadorned robes in neutral shades, but even at this distance he can tell they are well-tailored. It’s almost as though this strange little cultivator simply cares little for ostentation. The man’s most striking feature, though, are his small, round spectacles perched on the bridge of his nose, giving him an almost scholarly, harmless appearance. There is something almost too delicate about him, his presence entirely at odds with the savage creature standing so close. The cultivator doesn’t appear threatened at all by the beast, or perhaps he simply doesn’t realize that it’s a deadly predator beside him.

Liu Qingge pauses, watching as this strange cultivator murmurs softly in words too quiet for his ears to pick up, talking to the monster. Liu Qingge notices the book held in one of the cultivator’s hands, clocking the brush tucked behind one ear when the cultivator’s scandalously short hair shifts in the breeze. The man moves with slow, deliberate motions, his hand reaching out as though he wants to stroke the scales of the beast. 

The Vermillion Fanglancer, its predatory instincts still sharp, eyes the stranger suspiciously but doesn’t advance. It huffs, its large nostrils flaring, as if it is trying to make sense of the situation. Liu Qingge frowns, his hand instinctively tightening around his sword. 

What is this?

The cultivator hesitates, his initial motion pausing mid-air. The murmuring starts up again, and through it all not once does he appear threatened in the slightest. He begins to move his hand again—a slow motion, almost as if coaxing the creature—and to Liu Qingge’s utter disbelief, the beast calms. The creature doesn’t snarl or rear up in attack, but leans into the touch, its body relaxing under the cultivator’s gentle caresses as though the ferocious monster has been tamed into nothing more than a docile pet.

This isn’t right.

Liu Qingge’s brows furrow, his mind racing. He’s dealt with his fair share of rogue cultivators, but this one? This one is different. Too calm. Too in control. Liu Qingge’s eyes narrow as he steps forward into the treeline. 

“You,” he calls, his voice rough but commanding. “What are you doing?”

The cultivator’s head tilts up, and his gaze lands on Liu Qingge. For a brief moment when their eyes lock, Liu Qingge is struck by a bizarre sense of familiarity—he knows that face somehow, despite being absolutely certain that he’s never met this bizarre cultivator before. The thought is disabused as the scholar-like man gives a small, polite smile, banishing the familiarity like dust in the wind. The sweet expression seems more than a little out of place against the dangerous setting. 

“Ah, a fellow cultivator. This humble one didn’t notice daozhang there. Please, do not mind me.” His tone is soft and unassuming, as though he truly has no idea of the perilous situation they are in—the Fanglancer is no paltry foe, and this cultivator looks… soft.

Liu Qingge remains still, his expression unreadable, though he feels his lips tighten. The title surprises him—he’s not been called daozhang in years; most are well aware of who Bai Zhan’s War God is in this day and age.

Does he not recognize me?

“I’m hunting that,” Liu Qingge grunts out, his voice low and gravelly from disuse.

“Ah,” the cultivator pauses, his hand moving to stroke the Fanglancer’s nose. It lowers its head obediently, nuzzling the man like a docile pet as that deadly tail sways in slow, relaxed motions. “I always consider it a blessing to be able to meet such an impressive creature up close.”

Liu Qingge’s brows furrow further. “Impressive?” He grunts dismissively, tone blunt with his distrust plainly evident. “It’s a monster. Can kill you with a single strike.”

The man tilts his head, the smile lingering. “And yet, here we are. He hasn’t killed me, has he?" His hand trails down slowly, gently come to a rest on the beast’s scaled neck. The creature lets out a soft, almost contented sigh, leaning in closer to the strange cultivator. “Monsters, like people, are not so easily understood. They have their own hearts, you know.”

Liu Qingge’s lips press into a thin line, his gaze hard. “Foolish. Been terrorizing nearby towns. Not a pet.”

The cultivator blinks, as if processing the words slowly, before he chuckles softly, a sound entirely too calm for someone standing next to such a deadly creature. “Ah, I see. But you’re mistaken.” He strokes the Fanglancer’s neck again, his fingers tracing the sleek scales. “This sweet beast has no interest in terrorizing anyone. It was simply lost and confused. I’ve merely… guided it.”

Liu Qingge’s expression darkens, his grip tightening on Cheng Luan He’s known for his decisiveness in battle, his ruthless, relentless approach, and yet this man—this bizarre cultivator—speaks as though he’s taming a stray dog rather than facing one of the more dangerous creatures that prowls the world. The situation is absurd.

“Guide?” Liu Qingge’s tone is skeptical, and his eyes narrow. “You… tamed it?”

The cultivator’s smile widens, although it takes on a knowing feeling. “Not tamed, just… understood. Every creature, no matter how wild, has its own rhythm, its own needs. It just takes patience and a little trust.”

Liu Qingge scoffs, his voice laced with disbelief. “With that?” He motions toward the Fanglancer, which has lowered its head, nuzzling the cultivator’s side in an affectionate manner more befitting domesticated cattle than a ferocious wild beast.

The rogue cultivator shrugs, his calm demeanor unshaken. “Yes. It’s not about force. It’s about connection.” He looks over at Liu Qingge, his gaze soft but oddly piercing in a way that once again strikes Liu Qingge as deeply familiar—and oddly, he feels an uncanny sense of rage at that familiarity. “Sometimes, the most dangerous creatures are the ones that need the most understanding.”

Liu Qingge hesitates, his gaze flickering to the creature once again. Over the course of their stilted conversation, the Fanglancer’s stance has softened completely: its vicious tail still but relaxed, once-flashing eyes now dim and gentle. It doesn’t make sense—nothing about this makes sense. 

How could someone like him have such control over something so lethal?

“You–” Liu Qingge's voice falters for a moment before his usual coldness returns. “Rogue cultivator. What’s your goal here?”

The cultivator doesn’t seem to take offense. Instead, the smile softens and once again changes tone, almost as though he finds Liu Qingge’s suspicion amusing. “This humble one is not so different from daozhang. This one simply chooses his own path, free from the constraints of sects or titles—free to pursue his passion for studying such magnificent fauna without restrictions.”

Liu Qingge narrows his eyes at such a response, wondering if he’s being toyed with. His instincts scream at him that this man is dangerous in a way he doesn’t fully understand, and that unsettles him more than anything else.

Still, he cannot shake the curiosity that has been quietly building within him. This rogue cultivator—soft-spoken and scholarly in appearance—has just done something Liu Qingge could never have imagined, not even Duan Qingze has succeeded where this man has, and in such a short time too! He’s taken a creature of unimaginable power and twisted danger only to turn it into something… almost harmless. 

Almost.

“... made your point,” Liu Qingge grumbles stiffly, though his curiosity still gnaws at him. “Doesn't change that the beast has been a threat. Needs to be put down.”

The cultivator’s eyes soften, and his smile noticeably fades, taking on a melancholy feeling. “That is not the only answer, daozhang.” He looks at Liu Qingge with a piercing gaze, one that make the War God shift uncomfortably under the weight of it. “Sometimes… what needs to be put down is not the creature, but the fear of it.”

Liu Qingge feels a flicker of something inside him, a brief but sharp tug at the edge of his own beliefs. He doesn’t know what it is, or why this man—this stranger—can make him feel this way.

Without another word, Liu Qingge turns away, stalking back into the forest with deliberately forced steps. But even as he does, he can’t help but wonder if the rogue cultivator’s words have struck too close to something deep within him.

What kind of man tames a monster with mere words?

And more importantly, what kind of man is he becoming by walking away from it?

[1st] | [6th] < > [8th]

shout out to adornedwithlight for the reblog banner

[nevesmose]

Nostraman Nature Sucks: An Attempted Lore Post

Ave dominus nox Night Lords fans. I thought I'd take some time to go through the various NL stories I have to hand and see what I could find out about the animals that lived on Nostramo. Might come in useful for something, who knows?

Sharks and Whales

As a child, on several coastal journeys with his father, he had witnessed the eyeless barrasal sharks that would group together to hunt the great whales of the open ocean. (Night Lords Trilogy)

His voice filters into something savage and predatory, as hungry as the eyeless white sharks of Nostramo’s blackest depths. (The Long Night)

Not a big surprise since they talk about them fairly often and have the Space Sharks as a successor chapter but Nostramo does have sharks. Pretty gnarly-sounding sharks if I'm honest.

I didn't know what "barrasal" meant, so I looked it up and only found one thread on r/40klore that had the same quote in it as above. Hmm.

Assuming it's not a typo or a more straightforward reference to something I'm just not getting, I'd venture a guess that barrasal, understood here to mean of or relating to "barras" like with "abyssal" could be connected to the French Revolutionary leader Paul Barras who is mostly remembered for supporting Napoleon's rise to power before being overthrown by him.

So maybe the older barrasal sharks will make use of younger ones as temporary hunting partners only to be inevitably betrayed and consumed by them. Sounds about right I think.

As for the whales, where do I even begin? I would imagine they're "whales" in name only like in Dishonored:

This does imply the possible existence of a whaling industry at some stage in Nostramo's history, though.

Crows

Jago reached into his pockets, offering a handful of breadcrumbs. Come, he said to the crows. Food for tonight. Flesh, flesh, flesh, they called back. He laughed as several of the black birds landed on his shoulders and outstretched arm. (Prince Of Crows)

‘Yes. I’ve seen them in books. Is a crow a type of bird?’ ‘Black of feather and dark of eye. It feeds on the bodies of the dead, and sings in a raw, croaking caw.’ (TLN)

Breaking news - legion that keeps referring to crows in shocking has crows on its homeworld scandal. "This is outrageous," said local Nostraman cutpurse and skin disease enthusiast Verxaglryn Quickstabber, "here we are trying to make a good name for Nostramo as a respectable hellhole, a place you'd be proud to exile your worst enemy to, and yet we're surrounded by some of the most intelligent and curious birds in existence. I was shanking someone in a back alley the other night and suddenly I saw a crow learning how to use rudimentary tools! Not on my watch, I said to the rapidly cooling body, and I threw my shiv at it. But it just flew away." At this point Mr Quickstabber was obliged to end the interview due to having been eviscerated by the Night Haunter.

I know their communication with Sevatar is happening in a dream but I really like the idea of the crows adapting to Nostramo by developing some kind of psychic hive mind that's also able to be understood by human psykers.

Crag Cougars

A beast of my home world. When next you see one of the Atramentar, look to their shoulder guards. The roaring lions on their pauldrons are what we called crag cougars on Nostramo. It was considered a mark of wealth for gang bosses to be able to leave the cities and hunt such creatures. (NLT)

Every single one of them is Scar from the Lion King, isn't it? An interesting hint about Nostramo's geography though, of which more later.

Rats

Groundcars whisked by, headlights brighter than deep-hive rats’ eyes, the occupants snug and safe behind armoured glass. (Konrad Curze: The Night Haunter)

No surprises here either. Where there's people there's rats after all.

Something with tusks?

The older Astartes grinned, wolf-like and keen, as the Atramentar either side of the Exalted’s throne growled through their tusked helms. (NLT)

This isn't that conclusive because a lot of Chaos Terminators have tusks no matter what legion they are, but Nostramo being Nostramo they probably belonged to a species of giant carnivorous mammoth that ate babies and sprayed acid from its trunk.

Cows? On My Sunless World?

‘They are still of standard human stock, and not to be mourned. What does it matter if the cattle fear the herdsman?’ hissed Krukesh the Pale. (KC:TNH)

This one's a real reach on my part as it's very likely just a turn of phrase, but I noticed it because wouldn't it be slightly more typical to use a sheep metaphor here? Plus it supports the existence of Nostraman cowboys/ranchers/vaqueros which is fun.

No bats?

His helmet bore a new, spread batwing crest in blatant imitation of Sevatar’s own. (A Safe and Shadowed Place)

A sole space was neat: a circle around an iron lectern fashioned in the form of a bat’s outflung wings, which carried a heavy book bound in human skin. (KC:TNH)

Although they appear a lot in the VIII legion's iconography and artwork, oddly enough I wasn't actually able to find a direct reference to Nostramo itself having bats. Let's cover my ass by saying this aspect might therefore have been brought in by the legion's Terran component instead.

Some Nostraman geography

The Hill Folk lived away from the cities, eking out an existence in the mountains. (NLT)

What's worse than living in a Nostraman city? Living on a Nostraman hill, apparently. This seems to just be an idea of ADB's that doesn't come up again but I've always found it quite interesting. Were the Hill Folk as scummy as the City Folk, just with more of a down-home Dukes of Hazzard vibe? Seems likely.

This also supports the idea of Nostramo not being completely urbanised like some Hive Worlds are. In my view its continents might have had a geographical layout a bit like Italy or Scotland where the cities are mainly on the flatter coasts with a more sparsely populated hilly/mountainous interior.

What else? (This part is just me making stuff up so feel free to ignore it. I'm not ADB, I'm not even ADB's hat.)

If the rest of Nostramo's marine life is anything like the sharks and whales then it's fucking terrifying. I would imagine, because it's funny, that a lot of Nostraman food features disgusting industrially-processed fish in some way or another. Like the food in Dishonored but even worse.

Is something wrong, dearest offworld husband? You haven't touched your stale bread, whalemeat and jellied eels.

Since all life on Nostramo seems to be comically carnivorous and aggressive, it would make sense in a 40K kind of way for there to be giant predatory penguins living at one or both of its poles. A bit like the monstrous blind albino penguins HP Lovecraft wrote about.

Last known infrared pict-capture of an early Nostraman settler attempting communication with a juvenile specimen of the native penguin species. There were no survivors.

[ruby-red-inky-blue]

Arctic Exploration AU, kinda. Sneak.

@notasapleasure btw because I only require *minimal* enabling to spend time that I don't have, here's a sneak of the draft of the intro of that fic I definitely shouldn't start. I asked myself, what should literature from the mid-19th century sound like, and apparently my brain went "insanely long and complicated sentences" and ran with it lol

It was neither darkness nor cold that she dreamed of, in the succeeding months and years. Truthfully they were an afterthought at worst, though admittance of this was met with confusion and disbelief in society. Nor were it the dead that haunted her – an assurance that, only occasionally attempted, was met with even more vehement scepticism in London. But it was true. Though she could close her eyes and see them quite clearly, men frozen solid as though asleep; white bones polished clean by merciless winds, most of the human form having been removed more deliberately, for a purpose too abhorrent to ever be spoken aloud – it was not a pleasant memory, but it was not what tore at her soul in her darkest nights. Nor even was it the sight of the cairn that bore the last trace of Galen Erso, FRS, her father, and the crew of the ship that bore him to the barren wastes of the Arctic, Our Cpt. Sir Obitt and Mr. Erso dead 11th and 19th June...

No, what followed Jyn Erso into her darkest dreams was the ice. The groaning sounds it would make, the towering, entirely strange shapes it would form in the darkness beyond the ships, and the unspeakable vastness of it, endless lifeless nothingness in every direction to the horizon and scores of miles beyond. There was, Jyn had discovered, a horror to such emptiness, a terror so all-encompassing, so primal it had struck her dumb and blind at times. The icy plains, the empty, barren shores of the islands and coasts, the frigid black depths beneath the keel of the ships – all so achingly, awfully empty. In her dreams, when she closed her eyes, that horrific void returned, swallowed her up, drowned her, with none nearby to save her or even see her go.

It was impossible to explain to any who had not seen it. She had discovered this very soon after their return. Society had made up its mind about what it was to be in the Arctic, to be lost there, even – picturing very fine, bright-eyed explorers battling icy waves, shooting at monstrous polar bears, dying very noble and very English deaths with their hands clasped and their Queen’s praise on their blue lips. There was no room for half-mad savages stumbling through the wastes with nary a plan nor a thought for the noblesse of the good English blood in their veins, consumed by vague convictions that something eldritch and blasphemous out there hungered for them, lurking always at the corner of their eye in the white nothingness.

Jyn had been at first a curiosity, a strange woman, aged beyond her 24 years, skin more weather-worn by far than was fashionable, and eyes dark with the memory of things she was neither capable nor willing to describe. London had welcomed her back nonetheless, if only to rush her from parlour to parlour so all could catch a glimpse of her. The rumours had sustained her fame somewhat, for a time: She had attended to the dying, according to the stories, blood-spattered among men torn apart by the rigging, sawn and cut by the surgeons, ravaged by wild animals. (This was only partially false; she had seen all of those things happen, some rather nearer to herself than she would have liked, but she had not been tasked with tending to these men. According to the Rogue’s surgeon, this was owing to her lack of bedside manner – which she thought a particular insult coming from Dr. Kay.) She had worn men’s clothing and drunk gin and climbed in the rigging like a common sailor, people said. (All this was true, and they were the most excellent memories she had of all the journey – save perhaps a few that were equally scandalous, but rather more private.) She had lost a toe, or all ten – or an eye, some claimed, one being now glass. (She had both her eyes, but only eight toes remaining. One young man had proclaimed this made her perfectly repugnant to any gentleman wishing to marry, and despite her unhappy situation, she had found that assurance rather relieving in the moment.) She had given herself to an officer, or a sailor, or the captain, or all the men aboard The Rogue, depending on who you listened to. Some made her out as some witch, an albatross that had nearly cause the doom of the expedition – and some, which was most painful to her, made her out to be a cheat who had made up all their findings about the Erso Expedition to some selfish end.

The truth, that someone had been lying about her father, and had sought to sabotage the expedition, gone so far as to steal the maps and weapons and spoil provisions, had not been proven and witnessed in such a way that it would hold up in a court of law. And thus she could not spit it into everyone’s prying eyes, much as she longed to do just that. She had to be careful. She had to do right by her father, and all the other men who had lost their lives to a politician’s greed and machinations. She had to hold her tongue and endure it, and endure most of it alone, with Mr. Rook now recommended for a fellowship with the Royal Society, and Captain Andor gone to sea again, and most of the others gone with him or dead.

Ultimately, even the worst of the rumours could not sustain London society for long. Jyn did not supply the desired, lurid tales of bears and high seas and all the things idle aristocrats imagined transpired on a navy ship, and thus they eventually tired of her sullen, haunted presence, and left her to the solitude of her modest lodging in Lord Krennic’s least favourite summer house. This was well with her, preferring anything over the insipid questions and leering curiosity of her peers, even if that other thing be the silence of a crumbling country house where the creaking of old beams and rattling of loose windows oft transformed into the groans of the pack ice and the rigging of the Rogue rattling in a storm.

She was alone there, for better and worse. On good days, of which she had more and more in the summer of her second year, this meant she was at leisure to peruse the papers she had collected, and correspond with any who might help her in the task that remained: Proving Krennic for the treacherous, cold-hearted opportunist that he was, who had risked all the souls on her father’s expedition in the hopes of finding some new income to recover the wealth he had gambled away in his Irish properties. The man who had acted the gracious friend, taking her in upon her mother’s passing, and who had nonetheless endeavoured to doom the expedition that went in search of Galen, and her on it, rather than let his greed come to light. Of this at least she had witnessed accounts from the surviving sailors, her father’s student Mr. Rook as well as the Rogue’s captain, although Krennic’s agent, an officer by the name of Skeen, had found his end by the captain’s rifle and could not be a witness in his own right.

Captain Andor, too, would likely not be available to the court once she made her accusations public. Last she heard, he had received orders East – where exactly, she had not been able to discover, and his last letter had been cryptic as to his assignments. This letter was a good two years old by now, and she had heard nothing since. Quietly, she hoped this meant he had not been lost in the meantime – surely, one would hear of such a thing. After all, the captain had been in the papers as much as her upon their embarking on their northward journey, and upon their return.

Mr. Rook was of the opinion that she missed the captain, missed him still – he had written as much in the letter she had received on Monday, followed by a gently teasing hint that she might free herself from Krennic’s influence by marriage, and continue her crusade from the comfort of her own home without the constant fear of discovery. He meant well, she knew, and likely he was right, but she refused to entertain the thought with any real commitment. Who would have her, eight-toed and odd as she was now? She had never been a desirable bride to begin with, certainly, wilful and educated and altogether too decisive, as no one had ever ceased to inform her. She had taken some kind of bitter pride in it, too. Now… She wondered if she was any of these things anymore. Some days, she felt a rage in her chest greater than anything a human ought to feel, that rendered her near incapable of reason. Most days, she kept busy in a mindless, useless fashion, scared to linger anywhere or be idle lest she should hear the wind whistle across the ice again.

She was certain that she was somewhat improved, after more than a year in the countryside. The green of the hills and hedges did not look so alien to her on most days, the singing of the birds had grown less overwhelming, less oppressive. Mr. Rook had been very afraid for her so close to the sea, but she found it quite reassuring to see the waters waft and roil and splash up against the cliffs, ever moving and so very unlike the frozen, groaning wastes of her nightmares. She thought, even, that she should like very much to be on a ship again. She had enjoyed that part of things. It had suited her. Even the captain had eventually admitted that much.

She did miss the Rogue. And, though she was not about to admit this to anyone but her own conscience, she missed her captain, too.

[vivianbernadetteaurora]

..My two favorite icons for dressing up I love these two style. everything about it even when Nicole Richie went to Rachel’s z0,.who is like the reason we had boho back then but like the early 2000s Christina I love like Even so more so than The Dirty in some cases she just knew how to dress and she still even knows how to dress but she almost his dressing like a transgender woman at the moment which is nothing wrong like these if you’re Eden the DOL L . hairstyles on point but it seems to be these leotard things now that people wear all the time back in the day with Christina with her chaps but whoever installed the is an icon in my eyes because it was just so iconic no one else was doing it she changed from the image of what Brittany was because she was almost like Brittany back then and kept getting compared so then she changed the whole image to be like the bad girl..Same with Rachel Zoe before she came along I loved Nicole Richie style even more to be honest. Because I loved how she had the tacky extensions let’s call it I kind of like the tacky look.. I think it’s really cool and iconic and just of its time see The thing is I always compare I always compare the 80s to the 2000s and the 90s to the twenty 10s. because things were getting more political than we had Amy Winehouse as well, we have Pete Dougherty and Kate Moss. So in astrology generation planets do matter even in fashion .

At the time when Kate Moss was going through this, she was going for her Saturn return. I believe it might have even been later, to be honest, but I think it was around this time because she was a little bit older than Pete DO HERTY. He’s had many of his own scandals seems Kate most likes to date scandalous guys anyway because she is with Johnny Depp and looks what happened with him and people like to think Johnny Depp is so innocent he ******* isn’t and he’s now advertising this French perfume aftershave even and it’s called savage and if you know what French art means savage I totally believe it. Men don’t get held accountable enough for all this stuff, and you’ve got to think this was before the# Me Too movement as well.

[cordiallyhqs]

CORDIALLYHQS PRESENTS... A LETTER FROM QUEEN ANNE II

rumor rings through london at twilight and condemns its heart that is mayfair as a ground of ruin. the nobility once regarded as the greatest, the blessed, and the divine have been exposed as no more than feeble and salacious rabbits posing as lions. queen anne is awaken under moonlight to a knock at her bedchamber door, the words of the city's most notorious gossip lying on a silver platter for her to devour and choke. how can she remain a monarch of peace and harmony when those deemed the elite act like animals still learning to behave? their ferity and savage ways ends here.

My most loyal and esteemed subjects,

It has come to my notice that your recent conduct, having led you far from the path of this kingdom, has clouded your judgment, and now, more than ever, you stand in need of my guidance to restore you to the dignity of your rightful duties and obligations. In the light of your actions, I, your Queen, am most disheartened by the manner in which you have comported yourselves—an affront so vile it might even cause the most humble of persons to recoil in disgust.

A mere scribe, in her ignorance, could not possibly fathom the worth that lies within you, nor could she know the jewels that are your true potential. Know this: I see your strength, and I have long recognized the promise within you. When I first extended my invitation to this season, I made a solemn vow—a vow to create an environment where hearts broken by war, sorrow, and loss might find healing, and be restored to a life envied by those less burdened by such trials.

You, my subjects, bear a heavy responsibility. In your hands lies the power to set an example for both your peers and for the people of this kingdom. I implore you, act with the grace and dignity befitting your position, and I shall continue to guide you. I shall personally determine the finest among you, those whose worth shall be reflected in the best of matches, where your titles and your legacies will shine.

Know this, that the titles and honors which you hold, those precious gifts of rank and station, are not to be trifled with. I shall not permit them to be sullied by acts unworthy of their majesty. And further, I extend my favor to those in Mayfair who have proven such grace, trusting that their conduct shall be deserving of such blessings moving forward.

Remember, as swiftly as power and title are bestowed, so too can they be withdrawn.

May you heed this counsel, and may it guide you back to the path of honor.

Your Queen.

・.・𓂃۶ৎ THE QUEEN HAS ANNOUNCED AN OFFICIAL MATCHMAKING FOR THE SEASON! Following the scandalous exposure of Lady Whistledown's latest edition, Her Majesty has decided to be proactive in the season of harmony meant to cultivate a new generation of loyal nobles. She has extended her promise of assisting her jewels in the marriage market with a direct influence over courtships and determining the most plausible matches for her eligible bachelors and debutantes.

PLOT DROP SUMMARY

The queen's solution to the scandal brought on by Lady Whistledown has elicited a round of matchmaking to set the social season back on track. A letter has arrived to each noble house of the subject she has chosen to match make (volunteered by their muns, but canonically chosen by Her Majesty) which will be followed by an audience with the queen to determine the best course of action for a match. The queen has also hand selected members of the working class/commoners to match make that have been on their best behavior, with those working within households having a higher chance of being selected. She has outwardly threatened that the poor behavior of the ton can be means of removing their titles— desperate times call for desperate measures.

GUIDELINES

If you would like to volunteer your character for matchmaking, please submit this in the discord channel accordingly including your character's full name and sexuality to ensure an appropriate match. There will be a brief form for you to fill out.

Volunteers should be submitted by April 16th.

When volunteering commoners, please keep in mind what has been said about them in Lady Whistledown that may affect them being chosen. Working class members within noble households have an advantage with ruling lords/ladies that can vouch for them. It is up to you if your muse was suggested without their consent by their head of household. Please plot this with your household.

None of the matching making is a set ship or endgame, but rather a courtship highly influenced by the queen herself. Most of these pairings will be done to create further drama.

For working class members, they have gained the favor of the queen and will be given the necessary facilitation for the courtship entailing invitation to high society events. They will also be receiving sponsorships from the queen for necessary wardrobe changes and courtship activities but this will be a small account that will does not compare to the budgets the ton put towards preparation for the season.

HEADCANONS FOR THE ROYAL FAMILY & THE INTERVIEW: The interview, unfortunately, will not be played out on the dash with the queen as she is an NPC but you can write reactions or preparations for it. It can be headcanon'd that the queen and a matchmaking "team" will interview the subject and the head of their household. The experience should feel intrusive and exhausting, with pressures from the team to return to questions dodged by your muse. It is more than possible they remain untruthful, especially with their secrets, but this comes with effort. Her Majesty will not speak at most of these interviews and will let her team guide questions necessary to determine the needs, desires, and true impression of the subject. She can easily be described with kind eyes and a startling interest in her gaze despite not saying a word, with a little wry smile that is a rarity given only if she has made an obvious decision before her team.

[readingtoinfinity]

The Sign of the Four

The one with a lot of racism in it. And I wondered why I hadn't read it before!

Sherlock Holmes and John Watson are back for their second adventure, and are entreated by one Mary Morstan to discover why she has been receiving valuable pearls in the mail. From there, a conspiracy is uncovered, and we will learn the meaning of the sign of the four...

A lot of this book has to do with England's colonization of India, and its perception of the Andaman Islands. The mystery element is one I'll get to in a second, but so much of the reveal is tied into this geopolitical atmosphere that you can't really separate this very stunted British perception from your enjoyment of the book. The subjugation of India is, surprisingly, the less egregiously bad in this book.

Now, the only experience I have with the history of England and India in any detail is from the movie RRR. So some things that are particularly wrong will go over my head; I don't know the history of the strife between the Sikh and Hindu religions, so I can't say whether the characters who displayed this animosity did so accurately or not. There is some noted disdain for the people of India by Englishmen, but much of this is filtered through the viewpoint of a murderer, and a rather cold one at that, so while it's jarring one could argue it's in-character. But there is an understanding that England is only doing what's best for India, and people are revolting and resisting them for no good reason. It feels very much of the time, sadly.

What's worse is the treatment of the Andaman people. Watson notes them as a dark, savage, brutish people, given to wanton violence and cannibalism. This last claim is just plain false, a rumor that the gullible British continued to propagate. The disdain for hunter-gatherer societies is depressing but not unexpected for this kind of book (maybe a little depressing knowing that Doyle does preach anti-racism in a later story) but the sheer viscera that Watson has for this character is unmatched, and the story treats this character, Tonga, as entirely unintelligent and incapable of agency. It's an uncomfortable portrayal, and one that will continue to age worse on Holmes' legacy.

But after the mystery itself, there's a lot here that's quite good. The mystery of the pearls unravels into something larger, a murder whose perpetrator Sherlock Holmes is able to deduce pretty quickly, but then the story turns to figuring out how to catch him. There is a boat chase down the Thames in this book that was quite exciting, not something I expected from Arthur Conan Doyle. And the methods Holmes uses to track them down feel clever, even if I don't know of their utility in real life.

We also get a hint here of the sexism that Holmes has wiped away in A Scandal in Bohemia. Though by the end of the story we do get confirmation that Sherlock Holmes is almost entirely asexual and aromantic, he also has a dismissive attitude towards Mary Morstan, something Watson notes with disgust. I would have liked to have read this book before I started reading the other Sherlock Holmes stories, because I feel like his getting duped by Irene Adler would be all the sweeter having known he was such a prig before.

The explanation of the ultimate conspiracy, the titular sign of the four, is not all that interesting. I would not find this a fault of the story - there are enough other exciting things happening in the story to draw attention - but like A Study in Scarlet before this, there is a very long explanation and story told by the criminal to Sherlock Holmes and company. It's not nearly so long, but it is 10 times less interesting.

Finally on the more minor note: Doyle can't write romance. Mary and John Fall in Love by the end of this story despite only having known each other for less than 2 weeks. It is a very dramatic, flowery, "romantic" conversation, and while I think they've got the start of a very good friendship I don't believe that they would be in love by the end of it. Might be the asexuality talking.

In conclusion: this book is uncomfortable to read with 21st century eyes. As a historical document it is disgusting and telling, but as a story for casual readers I don't think it's too important and I don't think it would be a hot take to say that you could skip past it.

[zahri-melitor]

Recent Reads Roundup:

Annnnnnnd caught up.

Catwoman (Tini Howard): This run definitely had its ups and downs (Valmont's...everything, sending Selina to prison, a bunch of the gang drama), but I thought it pulled itself together better in the back half than I anticipated. True, Howard dropped essentially the entire supporting cast that Jones and Ram V. had been playing with, including sending Maggie off into who knows where for the entire run. However, Howard also clearly has a soft spot a bunch of the ethically dubious women of DC in general, and that shone through.

Eiko Hazigawa is all over this run. Scandal Savage is used with better skill than it appears to someone who has only picked up the Catwoman issues for The Gotham War. There's all sorts of drama entwined with Punchline and the Royal Flush Gang in the front half. Nine Lives drops Rose Wilson, Lori Zechlin, and Jeanette in to join the fun, and creates several peripheral women (another assassin, and someone who could work as an Aquaman side villain) into the mix.

It's not my favourite run, and it did some weird stuff that I expect will never really get followed through with (Selina getting gifted the power of Shazam from Egyptian cat gods? What was actually going on with Bastet and the resurrections? Why does Duchess look like that?) but Howard definitely had fun writing the title.

Nine Lives in particular was a lot more fun than I anticipated it to be, in a madcap 'send Selina into weird environments and make niche references' manner. I got the sense that it was a bit of a directory to runs and characters Howard likes (Suicide Squad, Secret Six, Black Adam, Aquaman 2016, she dug up DC's ripoff of the Wrecking Crew, the Demolition Team, from old Green Lantern, etc). She likes her antiheroes and villains.

And Dario Tomasso, as a character, just feels like a useful part of Gotham's mafia world. I want to dig into his connections with characters like Helena Bertinelli or Kitrina Falcone.

Nightwing (Tom Taylor): this run is the comics equivalent of a 90s tv show season. It's trying to do the longform story arc but doesn't quite have a solid handle on how to balance that against being a title that people can drop in to read. It's got a lot of stand alone short stories that in retrospect can be seen as building up towards the overall arc. It's got award season bait issues (both the single panel comic and 'see through Dick's eyes' are obvious Eisner bait). It's got fanservice (both Taylor's habit of writing scenes to be shared on social media, and stuff like the pirate interlude). It's got downtime beach episodes that let off the steam.

It's not how they make tv shows anymore (and there are reasons for it - the format can drag, especially as the overarching plot arc gets slowly salted in in little references that aren't necessarily essential to the story being told, and the threads often only get gathered up at the very end to make sense of things, so you're often drifting in a sea of serial seemingly unconnected incidents or monster-of-the-week) but when it's pulled off well it can be super memorable, and even when it's not quite there it tends to deliver a bunch of individual stories within the run that people are fond of.

It's good. Not great, definitely best read in about trade sized chunks interspersed with other stories, so you can put it aside when it's getting too samey, a tendency towards incorporating light and fluffy views of characters and tying plots off neatly, but it's engaging with a lot of Nightwing lore, it's familiar with who and what and how it's playing with the canon, and Taylor clearly gets the appeal of Dick's relationships with various of his family members among others.

It's at its best when Taylor's telling short complete stories.

Poison Ivy (G. Willow Wilson): I get why this such a popular run. It has so many of the vibes that the Moore Swamp Thing run had, but also modern, queer and in a character with an existing fandom.

The opening six issues are a beautiful reflection on nihilism and Pamela making an active choice to live, not just to sacrifice herself on a pyre of her own goals. And then it goes from there

It's a worthy inheritor and use of the complex lore of the Green, the Parliaments, the intertwined narratives written by the British Invasion, and decades of stories about Ivy's pivot as a character and the layered versions of her backstory. It centres Ivy's humanity by showing it against how wild and alien the lore she's inherited can become, compared to how she's so often been the alien figure in Bat stories.

And it's remarkably accessible, for all that. Absolutely a gateway drug into the weird shit end of DC, for fans who would never otherwise have branched out into those corners.

("Stick to your already-considerable gifts. Don't throw mushrooms into the bargain.")

The Penguin (Tom King): this isn't one of Tom King's hits.

I actually didn't mind Killing Time as a story, and this draws a bunch of characters and background from it, but I feel like the story ends up going nowhere very fast.

It also, just generally, contains a bunch of characterisation notes and retcons that I don't like as much as other versions. We've got people-eating Killer Croc here. The Cobblepot family aren't founders of Gotham and Oswald's not from inherited wealth. Bruce has apparently been using Penguin as an informer and letting him get away with all his smuggling and black market operations in payment. Oh, and it's one of those dull 'all the major villains know Batman's identity but don't say anything about it because...reasons' tropes.

It also contains a lineup of characters mined out of the back catalogues, and none of whom seem particularly interesting or like they were worth resurrecting? Okay, I'm sure SOMEONE reading this had a "omg it's the Force of July!" moment but it's just so predictably King a pick to pull from obscurity.

[eretzyisrael]

by Jeremy England

The Jews do not venerate the image of a more-divine-than-usual human who achieved an abstract victory for all of humanity by dying horribly. And because we do not, we cannot accept the Western exhortation to be suicidally gentle with our enemies in order to receive a Christian burial on their “moral high ground.”

There are many things about the Jewish state, both as it currently is and as the Torah imagines it could be, that meet the loftiest ideals of the liberal, crypto-Christian West. Jews by and large love living in the liberal, secular West because our culture has great intuitive affection for freedom of speech and conscience, as well as the need for each unique individual to be given the freedom to discover his God-given purpose.

But as a reflection of the oneness of the God described therein, the Torah is obstinately balanced when it comes to simple principles. It insists on justice, but makes room for mercy. It cherishes human life, but acknowledges deadly violence can be correct. It sees all people as created in the image of God, but it commands the nation of Israel to play a unique priestly role, through example rather than through world-dominating force, in leading the world to greater knowledge and service of God.

Put into practice in 2024, this means that Israel must stop pretending it is a nation like any other, begging to be judged fairly by whatever standards the current hegemon has decreed we all agree upon. We need to look for standards from within our tradition to set a moral example for the whole world, while making it more practically possible to defend our homeland.

Instead of bragging about the extra danger our soldiers experience for the sake of sparing enemy noncombatants, we should reject the premise that we Jews bear any responsibility for protecting the human shields employed by our enemy.

Instead of threatening Jews with arrest for praying on the Temple Mount, we should take a hint from the “Al-Aqsa” moniker our attackers gave to their day of savage invasion and let kohanim up there on the hill to slaughter lambs for Passover.

And above all—given that land is nearly all that matters to this death-worshipping foe—instead of repeatedly withdrawing troops from areas we have just taken over so we can deny having unchristian territorial ambitions, we should conquer, annex, and resettle parts of Gaza so that Jews and friendly gentiles both can live there safely.

If our own, unsurpassably subtle ethical tradition guides us to these policies, then it is only our lingering ideological subjugation to the Western tradition that makes them seem scandalous. Like the Jew among nations, Israel constantly struggles with its half-successful attempt to blend in with the crowd and pretend to be a member like any other, and it is time to put an end to this paralyzing charade. We did not stick to our Law through 3,000 years of human civilization to continue national life as the perpetual defendant. It is our job to know that Law, to teach what we know—and, most of all, to live by it.