#she's quarter indian though

[hussyknee]

K. J. CHARLES, I LOVE YOU.

...

— Wanted: A Gentleman, K. J. Charles (2017)

That's the emotional thread that runs through the whole novella, coupled with his conflicted love for the Conroys' daughter he helped raise. It runs in parallel with Swann's own shackles of ursury and exploitation, which, while not comparable with Martin's bondage, still inspires his empathy and compassion.

Cesar Picton

Black Georgians: The Shock of the Familiar

FUCK YOUR BRIDGERTON-ASS WHITE LIBERAL DIVERSITY-COOKIES REPRESENTATION. THIS IS HOW YOU WRITE BLACK AND BROWN PEOPLE. We've always been here, bitch. Pay attention and be curious about our interiority for once.

[redheadspark]

i had a small idea yesterday for the prompt session! druig with #’s 3, 15, and 18. maybe with reader after the emergence. they’re both EXHAUSTED and even though druig’s hurt, he still wants to make sure his s/o is okay after fighting. you can change things around to your liking ofc!

A/N - YAS! I do like this a lot for Druig! Thanks for requesting this, dear friend!

Scars and All

Summary - Druig seeks you out after the Emergence

Warnings - angst and fluff mixed together

“How is she?”

“I’m more concerned about you since you took a beating from Ikaris on that beach,”

Druig huffed as Phastos was looking him over with some of his equipment, being ever patient but not willing to sit through a thorough exam.  He was sitting on what was left of Phastos’s work table, his armor stripped, and was only sporting his black pants and nasty bruises along his ivory skin.  Phastos and Thena were with him and taking the proper measures to check on him, Sersi was talking to a now-human Sprite in the Meeting Room, leaving Makkari to tend to you in your shared room with Druig.  Although Druig knew that Thena would hold him down in order for him to get checked over and be cleared, he would rather be with you.

You both took a beating on that beach in order to save the world.

Druig took on Ikaris’s beams head-on, thinking for a split moment that he wasn’t going to make it out alive.  It left him both physically and mentally bruised, not to mention the mental fatigue that he endured ignorer to take over the mind of a full Celestial.  Throughout the centuries that he has been on Earth, this was truly the first time he felt beyond tired.  

Not tired, exhausted.

“Your internal organs are still good,” Phastos hummed as he scanned Druig’s backside slowly and with determination, Druig’s leg bouncing on the workstation table as he was sitting Indian Style.  Even his fingers were fidgeting while he was staring dead ahead at the wall.  He was half listening, mostly thinking about you and how you were holding up.  Seeing you on the beach covered in scratch wounds and pale to the touch made his heart sink.  Saving the world didn’t matter to him anymore, nor did stopping Ikaris and stopping Tiamat.  All that mattered was you.

He needed to see you and make sure you were alright.

“The bruises are gonna last a bit,” Phastos explained as Druig was still sitting rather impatiently, Thena was watching like a hawk and not moving an inch while Phastos placed his instruments down and gave Druig a brotherly kind of stare, “I can have Makkiar get some herbs to make a paste and make the bruises shrink down a bit.”

“Not a fan of modern medicine I take it?” Druig asked with a hint of sarcasm, though Phastos cracked a grin.

“Modern medicine is too tame compared to what we endured in the glory days,” Phastos hummed, then pausing for a brief moment before he spoke again, “Plus, we need to be careful since we don’t have Ajak to help us,”

It made the mood more somber in the room, even when it was rue.  Ajak was always there to heal them, from the smallest scratches to the more massive wounds that they would get from Deviants.  The healing was more than the physical, her soothing tones and words of encouragement for every Eternal.  Even Druig, though they both clash plenty of times when it comes to the philosophy of Eternals, admired Ajak all the more and missed her terribly.  

“Thanks, Phastos,” Druig replied with a soft smile, hopping down from the workstation table.

“Get some rest,” Thena instructed him with a small tilt of her head to him.  Druig nodded back.

“Will do,” He replied walking past both Phastos and Thena to the hallways that lead to the living quarters.  He was glad that he was cleared from needing anymore assistance, and he was not thinking about himself at the current moment.  

“Couldn’t gone worse for him if it wasn’t for her,” Phastos said to Thena as Druig was walking away, his eyes going right down the hallway and nothing slowing him down.

“She saved his life, as she should since they were meant for each other,” Thena replied in an optimistic hum, which made Druig wish he could smile from hearing that from the warrior herself.  He might have been too tired to smile, or simply more concerned about you to smile from the comment.  But it still warmed his heart nonetheless, adoring Thena all the more.

Once he made it to your shared room, He carefully and softly opened the door to see nothing but darkness.  Your king-sized bed was against the wall, you were nestled amongst the satin sheets and already sleeping with Makkari sitting by your side and keeping a close eye on you.  

Makkari, still clad in her armor, saw Druig and immediately sped over to him, She’s okay.

“Thanks, ‘Kari,” He whispered to her as he gestured his head over to your sleeping form, “How bad is it?”

Her cuts are deep, but they’ll heal in a few days, She explained to him, I know how to make a paste for her wounds to make the healing go a bit faster.  I’ll make some for you too, I think you two need some rest,

“You might be right,” he agreed, seeing her crack a smile slightly before she leaned over to hug him gently.  He hugged her back, feeling her warmth in the embrace.  Once Makkari pulled away and slipped out of the room, Druig looked over at your sleeping form with both concerns and warmth.  

Warmth that you were alive and still with him in this life, and concern that you took a beating to protect him. 

He loved watching you sleep in the past, seeing how soft and content you were as you dreamed away with nothing haunting you.  There were even moments when he would watch you and be amazed at how peaceful you seemed to be in a chaotic and ever-grieving world around you.  He loved that about you and he wished he had that in himself sometimes.  

You had enough love and compassion to fill the both of you up instantly and overflow.  

Moving without him making a single sound, Druig lifted the sheet to finally see you.  The distinct slash marks along your skin, the deep bruises etched near your neck and hips. It was all too much for him to see.  You were never one to harm a fly or start trouble, it wasn’t in your nature.  Yet now, you looked so broken to Druig that it made his heart shatter. 

Immediately he moved, wrapped you close in his arms, and avoided some of the fresher wounds.  You stirred, your head against his neck now as he hummed to alert you.

“…Druig?” You said in a hoarse tone.

“I’m right here, darlin’.  Go back to sleep,” He mumbled to you since the last thing he wanted was for you to wake up and lose sleep.  You moved your arms, grimacing from the drained energy and the tender bruises along your arms.  

“You okay?” You asked him.  Of course, you would be worried for him and his health, not even worried about your own wounds and exhaustion.  Druig loved you for your selfless heart and need to care for others before yourself, both a blessing and a curse for him to witness as the love of your life.  He kissed your forehead, feeling his own energy draining within moments from being in a safe space with you and being in one piece.

“I’m alright now,” he reassured you soothingly, “We’re both alright now.  Let’s sleep, alright?  I got ya,”

As you both slept and healed together, all you both could dream of was your future together.  No matter that there was no village to go back to, losing some of your own to both the Deviants and Ikaris at the same time, none of that mattered compared to what you two wanted in your future together.  Somewhere quiet and away from chaos, maybe near the sea or deep in the forest.  Just you and Druig against the world, scars and all.

The End. 

September Prompt Session

[beyralxoxo]

{Amor Omnia Vincit-Lucius Verus Aurelius}

Chapter 3-Auream caveam gladioque: Golden Cage and the Sword

SUMMARY: Tillotama is met with her fate, the twin emperors gave her a chambers fit for and empress yet she knows it's nothing but a golden cage. And while she explores her new world, her soon-to-be protector is presented to the court and there he shows how great of a poet he can be.

PAIRING: Lucius Verus Aurelius x South Indian OC

WORD COUNT: 8,4 K

WARININGS: Death, Gladiator fights, a hint of mocked cannibalism (?)

As the towering gates of the palace closed behind them, the noise of the crowds and the procession outside slowly faded into silence. Tillotama found herself standing in a vast, echoing hall, the air thick with the scent of incense and myrrh. The grand chamber was unlike any she had seen before—its walls adorned with rich tapestries depicting Roman victories, while marble floors gleamed in the soft glow of golden light. It was both beautiful and foreign, a symbol of the empire’s opulence, and yet it was nothing more than a gilded cage for her to navigate.

The court had been granted their own wing in the palace, a gracious but unsettling gift from the twin emperors. Tillotama’s mind swirled with the complexities of the situation, but for now, the physical space was all she could focus on. The wide hallways stretched before her, leading into what would be her quarters in this strange city.

After a few moments of walking through the palace, they arrived at a large, ornate door, beyond which was a suite that would serve as Tillotama’s new chambers. The space was grand, adorned with velvet cushions, fine marble columns, and large windows that let in the soft, golden light of the afternoon sun. It was lavish and luxurious—but still, there was something foreign about it.

At the entrance stood a woman, older and dignified, dressed in rich Roman garments. The moment she saw Tillotama, she dropped to one knee, bowing deeply in respect.

“My lady,” the woman spoke softly, her voice warm but full of reverence. “They call me Pompeia Caesonia. I am the mistress of the chambers in this palace, entrusted with serving you and ensuring your comfort.”

Tillotama’s gaze lingered on her for a moment. Though the words were foreign to her, she could sense the sincerity in them. She turned her head toward Waarangan, her trusted translator, who stepped forward, ever calm and measured.

Waarangan spoke the words in her native tongue. “This woman is Pompeia, the one in charge of your chambers. She welcomes you, my lady.”

Tillotama’s lips parted in a small, soft smile as she gave a slight nod of acknowledgment. She had grown accustomed to her silence in these foreign lands, letting her actions speak louder than her words. She looked at Pompeia with a gaze that conveyed the respect she felt, even if she lacked the words to express it.

In her culture, a show of respect for an elder was often given through the act of touching their feet. With a quiet grace, Tillotama lowered herself slightly, her hands moving reverently toward Pompeia’s feet as she bent forward, the gesture humble and sincere. It was a sign of her respect, a silent acknowledgment of Pompeia’s position as both an elder and a guide in this new and unfamiliar place.

Pompeia, seeing this gesture, gasped softly in surprise. Her expression softened, and she instinctively reached out to stop Tillotama. “No, my lady,” she said, her voice trembling slightly with emotion. “There is no need. You honor me more than you know, but I should be the one taking the blessings from you.”

Waarangan, always attentive to the nuances of their interaction, quickly translated Pompeia’s words for Tillotama. He spoke gently, his voice carrying a calm understanding. “Pompeia says there is no need for such a gesture. She feels blessed by your respect, my lady.”

Tillotama’s face remained calm, but her eyes reflected her gratitude. She rose slowly, her hands folding in front of her in a more conventional gesture of respect. Though she could not understand Pompeia’s words directly, the sentiment was clear. This moment was an exchange of honor, a bridge between two worlds, and Tillotama’s heart swelled slightly with the quiet power of it.

Pompeia smiled at her, a warmth in her gaze that seemed to echo the respect and understanding shared between them. “The gods have certainly blessed you, child,” Pompeia said softly, a sense of awe in her voice. “To carry such dignity and grace…”

Tillotama met her gaze, her lips curling into a small smile. Though she did not speak the language, she had learned to communicate with her eyes, her presence. And in this moment, that was enough.

Pompeia, still gazing at her with a mixture of admiration and wonder, turned toward the chambers beyond. “Come, my lady,” she said gently, her tone filled with care. “Rest for now. The journey has been long, and you must prepare for the life ahead of you here. When you are ready, I will assist you in whatever you need.”

Tillotama inclined her head in a silent acknowledgment. She felt the weight of the moment—the quiet recognition between herself and this woman who, despite the distance between their worlds, had shown her kindness.

With a final glance at Pompeia, Tillotama entered the chambers, her court following behind her, and the doors closed softly, sealing her into this new chapter of her life. The palace felt both a prison and a sanctuary, but within its walls, she would forge the path that lay ahead. And no matter the challenges, Tillotama knew she would walk it with the same quiet strength that had brought her this far.

As the last of Tillotama’s court went on, Pompeia remained standing in the doorway for a moment longer, watching the woman who had arrived from a far-off land—beautiful, dignified, and brimming with a mystery that even the great city of Rome would not fully understand.

The doors to the imperial chambers swung open with a soft, heavy groan, revealing the luxurious space where the twin emperors awaited their esteemed visitor. The sunlight streamed through the large windows, casting a golden hue across the room, as though even the very air was aware of the significance of the moment. A faint sense of expectation hung in the air like smoke, thick and palpable.

Macrinus entered with his usual composed confidence, his sharp eyes scanning the room before settling on the two young rulers who sat on their thrones. A slight smirk curled on his lips, a knowing, almost imperceptible glint in his eyes as he took in the sight of Caracalla's impatient energy and Geta's more restrained presence. He could feel the undercurrent of tension, the simmering anticipation of a moment that would reveal much about both the woman they were eager to see and the power dynamics that were already at play.

Caracalla, his posture more dynamic and restless than his brother's, sprang from his throne as soon as he saw Macrinus, his enthusiasm practically crackling in the air. His voice, low and urgent, was the first to break the silence.

“So?” Caracalla asked, his gaze piercing and filled with expectation. “Did you see her?”

Macrinus chuckled, a sound low and amused, dripping with the satisfaction of knowing his control over the situation. He let the question hang in the air for a beat before answering, his tone measured but laced with an almost maddening calmness. “I did, your majesty,” he said, the words slipping smoothly from his lips. “Though, as is tradition, her face was concealed behind a veil. As your esteemed ambassador mentioned, her beauty, it seems, is something... reserved. Awaiting its proper moment.”

He paused deliberately, allowing the weight of his words to settle, savoring the palpable frustration in Caracalla’s eyes, which burned with the same impatience that had led the emperor to seek this moment of revelation.

Geta, ever the more cynical of the two, scoffed loudly, his eyes narrowing as he licked his bottom lip in an almost dismissive gesture. The exasperation in his voice was unmistakable as he leaned forward slightly, a hint of disdain coloring his words. “Have we not already waited enough?” he spat. “What more is there to know?”

Macrinus turned to him, his gaze sharp and calculating. His lips twitched into an almost imperceptible smile, as if savoring the very vulnerability in Geta’s frustration. This was where Macrinus thrived—manipulating the gaps in the young emperor's understanding, turning impatience into a weapon of his own.

"Ah, but your majesty, impatience often distorts the true value of what is to come,” Macrinus said smoothly, his voice tinged with a mockery that was both veiled and cutting. He held Geta’s gaze for a moment, watching the older twin’s irritation flare and then subside. “Patience... it's a virtue that can turn anticipation into something far more powerful than mere beauty. There’s a certain thrill in the waiting, don’t you think?”

Caracalla shot a glance at his brother before returning to Macrinus, his energy still restless, but with an edge of curiosity now sharpening his features. He seemed to weigh the words, though his patience was growing thin.

“That’s true," he muttered, the edge of his voice dripping with impatience. "We’ve waited long enough already, yet she remains hidden. The veil, the secrecy... What is it you’re really saying, Macrinus?”

The older man’s eyes gleamed with the faintest flicker of triumph. He knew this game, knew how to bend their curiosity into something far more potent. He took a step closer to Caracalla, his hand drifting gently to the younger emperor's shoulder in a gesture that was both familiar and possessive, as though to stake his claim in the conversation.

“The woman is no mere object of desire, Caracalla,” Macrinus said softly, his voice taking on a lower, almost conspiratorial tone. “She is the embodiment of something much more... intoxicating. Rome, as you well know, thrives on spectacle, on control. You will not simply be looking upon her face. You will be witnessing power—a performance that will make even the gods tremble. But, as with all great spectacles, it is in the anticipation that the power truly grows.”

He leaned in slightly, his voice now quieter, coaxing. “And for that... we must wait, my lord. For tomorrow."

Caracalla’s eyes glinted, his frustration now mingled with an undeniable fascination. His breath quickened slightly, a flicker of something deeper in his gaze. Macrinus had struck a chord—a perfect balance of teasing and promise.

“Tomorrow?” Caracalla repeated slowly, as if savoring the word. “She will perform tomorrow?”

Macrinus gave him a knowing smile, a flicker of something darker crossing his features. “Yes. Tomorrow, she will unveil herself—not just her beauty, but her power. And the moment she steps onto that stage, she will command the attention of Rome.”

Geta was silent now, his jaw clenched as he absorbed the information, his mind turning, calculating. But even he could not ignore the tension that had begun to rise in the room. The very air seemed to thrum with anticipation, charged with the weight of what would unfold. Macrinus was no longer just an adviser; he was the one pulling the strings, the master of this particular game.

“Power?” Geta asked, his voice sharper now, skepticism creeping into his tone. “You speak as if she’s a goddess or some oracle. Do you truly believe that? We’re speaking of a woman... a foreign one, at that.”

Macrinus turned to him, his smile widening just a touch—sly, knowing, dangerous. “Oh, she’s more than that, my lord. She is a goddess... but not of Rome’s making. And that, I think, is what will make her even more valuable. She carries with her the promise of something unknown, something Rome has not seen. And the unknown is always more dangerous than what is familiar.”

He stepped back slightly, letting the weight of his words settle, and for a moment, the room was quiet—thick with the tension of a promise still unfulfilled, yet tantalizingly close.

Caracalla turned his gaze toward the window, his thoughts clearly drifting, as if envisioning the moment when Tillotama would finally reveal herself. Geta, still quiet, appeared to be weighing the implications, his mind working behind his cool, calculating exterior.

Finally, Macrinus gave a small, almost imperceptible bow of his head, the corner of his mouth curling slightly. “Yes, tomorrow will be the day,” he said, turning to leave the room. “Rome will witness something... truly remarkable.”

As the door clicked softly behind him, the twin emperors were left in their silence, each haunted by their own anticipation. The tension that Macrinus had expertly built would remain, bubbling beneath the surface, until tomorrow when it would finally be released in a way that none of them would forget. Macrinus knew this—he had already planned it. Tomorrow would be a day for Rome to remember, and he would be there, watching, as the true game of power began.

While Macrinus played with power under the naive eyes of the emperors, Tillotama began looking around her new chambers.

The chambers were nothing short of breathtaking, a marvel crafted by the hands of excess. Marble ceilings soared overhead, adorned with gilded carvings that glittered in the sunlight spilling through towering arched windows. The walls bore frescoes of Roman gods and heroic exploits, while the floors, cool and smooth, were inlaid with mosaics that seemed to tell stories of power and conquest. The air carried a faint, sweet fragrance, as if even the breezes were curated for perfection.

Tillotama stood at the edge of the sprawling balcony, gazing out at the sapphire-blue expanse of the sea. Beyond the horizon lay freedom—or at least the life she had known before stepping into this gilded cage. Below, a massive bath sprawled like a miniature lake, surrounded by lush flowers and statues of Roman deities, their stony gazes both welcoming and imposing.

“This is a trap,” she said finally, her voice soft but certain. “A beautiful one, yes. But a trap nonetheless.”

Kinjal, standing with arms crossed near a column, was the first to reply. “We need to bless this place,” she said with her usual practicality, her sharp eyes darting around the room as though searching for hidden curses. “I can feel the evil eye on me already.”

Chanchal, sprawled on a chaise with the casual grace of someone entirely unbothered, let out a laugh. “You feel the evil eye on you everywhere, Kinjal,” she teased, twirling the end of her braid absentmindedly. “I think the evil eye must be madly in love with you by now.”

Kinjal’s glare was sharp enough to cut marble. “And I think it’s your constant chatter that draws it in. Did you ever consider that, oh wise one?”

“Wise and charming,” Chanchal quipped, undeterred. “Two things you could learn from me, Kinjal.”

Mataangi, who had wandered to the edge of the bath, dipped her fingers into the water. The ripples spread outward like silver threads on silk. “Say what you will about their morals,” she said dryly, inspecting the statues that loomed around her. “The Romans certainly know how to indulge. This place isn’t a trap—it’s a queen’s palace.”

Tillotama turned toward her, an ironic smile tugging at the corner of her lips. “If I am queen of anything,” she replied softly, “it is only of my own misfortunes.”

Bulbul, lingering by the balcony’s edge, had been quietly observing the world beyond when she gasped. Her wide eyes sparkled with a mix of curiosity and surprise. “Tillo,” she murmured, tugging gently at Tillotama’s sleeve. “Did you know there are men training down there? Warriors. So many of them.”

Kinjal’s brow arched as she exchanged a glance with Tillotama. “Warriors?” she said, her tone skeptical. “That’s... unexpected.”

Chanchal sprang up, her energy igniting like a spark catching dry kindling. “Move aside, Bul,” she said, marching to the balcony. “Let me see these men for myself.”

Bulbul stepped aside, stifling a giggle as she pointed toward the training grounds below. Chanchal leaned over the railing, her braid swinging with the motion. Her eyes scanned the grounds, widening as they took in the muscular forms of the gladiators below, their bronzed skin gleaming with sweat as they clashed swords under the midday sun.

“Well, well, well,” Chanchal drawled, a grin spreading across her face. “Glory to Shiva indeed. Would you look at that?”

Tillotama bit her lip, trying to suppress a laugh. “Chanchal Devi,” she said, her tone a gentle reprimand. “I thought you were the one most critical of Rome. Something about ‘barbarians and brutes,’ if I recall.”

Chanchal waved her hand dismissively, still leaning over the railing. “An opinion can always evolve, Tillo. I’m merely appreciating their... cultural contributions.”

Kinjal’s laugh was sharp and sarcastic. “Cultural contributions? You mean their muscles.”

“Muscles are part of culture!” Chanchal shot back, grinning shamelessly. “Besides, who am I to deny Rome its small victories?”

Mataangi shook her head, chuckling softly as she joined them at the railing. “Leave it to Chanchal to be conquered by sweaty men wielding swords.”

“They’re not just sweaty men,” Bulbul interjected, her voice quiet but sincere. “Look at how focused they are. The way they move—it’s like a dance.”

“Dance or no dance,” Kinjal muttered, folding her arms. “We’re still prisoners here, even if the cage comes with entertainment.”

Chanchal turned to her with a mischievous glint in her eye. “Oh, don’t be so dour, Kinjal. A little fun never hurt anyone.”

Tillotama stepped away from the balcony, shaking her head in amused exasperation. “One of these days, Chanchal, your ‘fun’ is going to get us all into trouble.”

Chanchal followed her with a playful smile, her hands clasped dramatically over her chest. “If trouble is my destiny, then I shall face it with open arms.”

“You’d better hope it’s not carrying a sword,” Mataangi quipped, her sharp tone earning a laugh from the group.

For a brief moment, the air was lighter. The tension of their situation, the uncertainty of their future—it all faded into the laughter they shared. The walls of the gilded cage still loomed around them, but within it, they found solace in each other. It was a small victory, but a victory nonetheless. And as Tillotama glanced back at her companions, she allowed herself to hope that together, they could endure whatever came next.

The throne hall was a spectacle of grandeur, its marble columns towering like the trunks of ancient trees, and its floors gleaming beneath the shafts of sunlight that poured through arched windows. Caracalla and Geta lounged atop their gilded thrones, their expressions somewhere between boredom and faint curiosity. Around them, senators, courtiers, and a smattering of invited guests whispered among themselves, the air heavy with expectation.

Macrinus stood to the side, his hands clasped behind his back, the faintest trace of a smirk playing on his lips. He had arranged this moment meticulously, ensuring every detail served his designs. Senator Thraex, standing near the base of the dais, glanced toward him with an uneasy smile, but Macrinus gave no acknowledgment. His eyes were fixed on the twin emperors, watching their every reaction.

Thraex cleared his throat, raising his arms theatrically. “My emperors, esteemed lords, ladies, and noble senators! In honor of our illustrious guests and to stave off the shadows of monotony, I present to you the raw, unrelenting art of combat! Tonight, this hall will bear witness to the strength, skill, and determination of gladiators!”

Caracalla straightened slightly, his fingers drumming on the armrest of his throne. “Finally,” he muttered, loud enough for those nearby to hear, “something to make this day tolerable.”

Geta smirked, casting a sidelong glance at his brother. “If it doesn’t put you to sleep first.”

Thraex ignored the quip, his voice rising above the murmurs. “From my own stables, the unbeaten titan—Vincent!”

The heavy doors swung open, and Vincent entered to scattered applause. He was a behemoth of a man, his muscles straining against the simple tunic he wore. He carried himself with the confidence of someone who had faced death and won countless times. As he reached the center of the hall, he raised a fist, eliciting louder cheers.

“Looks like a bull,” Caracalla remarked with a chuckle. “I hope he doesn’t fight like one.”

“And to challenge him,” Thraex continued, his voice laced with forced enthusiasm, “a gladiator presented by the honorable Macrinus!”

All eyes turned as the second set of doors opened. A leaner figure stepped into the hall, his ocean-blue eyes scanning his surroundings. There was no posturing, no grand gestures—just a quiet, deliberate stride toward the center. His silence was disarming, his composure unnerving.

Caracalla leaned toward Macrinus, raising an eyebrow. “This is your champion?”

Macrinus inclined his head, his tone light but laced with intent. “Appearances can be deceiving, your majesty.”

Geta smirked, his interest piqued. “Let’s hope so. Otherwise, this will be over before it begins.”

Thraex gestured grandly. “Three rounds! Hand-to-hand combat! Let the gods themselves decide the victor!”

The tension in the throne hall thickened as Caracalla’s voice cut through Thraex’s response like the sharpest blade.

“Swords!” he demanded, his tone imperious and dripping with boredom-tinged cruelty. “We want swords. Let them fight to the death—no quarter to be offered or given.” He leaned back on his throne, a wicked gleam in his eye, his posture suggesting he craved bloodshed to break the monotony of the day. “Fight now.”

A collective murmur rippled through the gathered crowd. Even Thraex, who had hoped for a display of hand-to-hand combat to keep things relatively civilized, faltered at the young emperor’s sudden decree. He turned to Macrinus with a look that mingled unease with incredulity. Macrinus, however, offered nothing but an enigmatic smile, his gaze never leaving Caracalla.

The gladiators were promptly handed swords, their blades gleaming ominously under the sunlight streaming through the grand arched windows. The younger of the two combatants—the lean, blue-eyed challenger presented by Macrinus—accepted his weapon with a measured grip. His expression was one of grim understanding. He turned toward Vincent, his opponent, and attempted to reason with him, his voice low and urgent.

“Brother,” he began, his tone steady but imploring. “Let’s not kill each other for their amusement. This isn’t worth your life or mine.”

Vincent’s only response was a guttural growl, his massive frame advancing with menacing intent. He swung his sword in a brutal arc, the blade narrowly missing its mark as the younger man dodged. Vincent’s face twisted in rage, and the hall reverberated with the clash of steel as the fight began in earnest.

Caracalla clapped his hands once, a gleeful grin spreading across his face. “Finally! Now this is what I call entertainment!”

Geta, seated beside him, wore a more subdued expression, though his lips curved into a faint smirk. “At least one of them might survive. Unless your champion loses, Macrinus.”

Macrinus inclined his head slightly, his expression unreadable. “Your majesty, survival is often determined by wit as much as strength. Let’s see if that proves true today.”

Vincent attacked with unrelenting aggression, his sheer size and strength making him a formidable opponent. He swung his sword with the kind of brute force that could cleave a man in two, but the younger gladiator was agile, sidestepping and parrying with remarkable precision. Each clash of their blades rang out like a grim melody, echoing in the vaulted chamber.

“Come on!” Vincent roared, frustration building as his strikes failed to land. “Fight me like a man!”

The younger gladiator’s movements remained calculated and defensive, his expression unwavering. “I fight to survive, not to prove myself to men like them,” he replied, his voice calm but resolute.

The exchange earned a ripple of laughter from some of the senators, but Caracalla leaned forward, his interest piqued. “He’s got spirit,” he remarked, turning to Macrinus. “You’ve chosen well.”

“Spirit alone doesn’t win battles,” Geta interjected, his tone skeptical. “But I’ll admit, he’s entertaining.”

As the fight raged on, the younger gladiator underwent a startling transformation. What had begun as a calculated defense—each movement precise and measured—shifted into an overwhelming onslaught of raw, unrelenting rage. His strikes, initially tactical, now carried the force of a tempest, the sheer ferocity of his blows silencing the once-roaring crowd.

Vincent, a towering man of muscle and brutality, began to falter. His earlier dominance now seemed a distant memory as he struggled against the unyielding barrage. The younger man’s sword became an extension of his fury, carving deep, bloody lines across Vincent's flesh. Each strike was delivered with devastating precision, leaving the larger man staggering, his strength sapped, his resolve wavering. The air in the grand throne hall grew thick with tension, the onlookers leaning forward in their seats, some unable to tear their eyes away.

The crowd’s initial cheers of bloodlust turned to uneasy murmurs. Senators whispered among themselves, their faces a mixture of awe and apprehension.

"Who is this savage?" one whispered, his voice barely audible over the hushed tension.

"Not a man—a beast," another replied, his tone reverent yet tinged with fear.

Macrinus, standing beside the emperors, allowed a sly smile to tug at the corners of his mouth. His sharp eyes gleamed as he leaned toward Geta, his tone casual but loaded with subtle malice.

“Strength comes in many forms, your majesty. Even in those we might initially overlook.”

Geta’s expression remained stoic, though his gaze betrayed a flicker of unease. He said nothing, his attention locked on the ferocious spectacle before him.

Caracalla, by contrast, was thoroughly enthralled. He leaned forward in his seat, his eyes alight with sadistic glee. “Look at him!” he exclaimed, his voice ringing through the hall. “Such fire! Such fury! This is what Rome craves—true strength, not hollow bluster.”

Macrinus’s smile widened almost imperceptibly. “Indeed, your majesty,” he said softly, his tone dripping with the satisfaction of a plan unfolding perfectly.

The younger gladiator’s relentless assault reached its climax with a brutal sequence of blows that left Vincent barely standing. Blood streamed from the older man’s wounds, staining the pristine marble floor beneath them. His labored breaths came in ragged gasps, his once-imposing form reduced to a broken shell.

A final slash tore across Vincent’s chest, sending him crashing to his knees. His sword clattered to the ground, slipping from his grasp as he clutched at the gaping wound. He looked up at his opponent, his expression a mixture of disbelief and resignation. Blood dripped from his lips as he struggled to speak, but no words came.

The younger gladiator stood over him, his chest heaving with exertion. His ocean-blue eyes, once calm and introspective, now burned with an almost otherworldly rage. He raised his sword high, poised for the killing blow. For a fleeting moment, the fury in his eyes seemed to waver, as if a fragment of humanity were struggling to reassert itself.

But the hall was filled with cries for death. The crowd’s bloodlust surged once more, drowning out any whispers of mercy.

Caracalla’s voice cut through the din like a blade. “Finish him!” he commanded, his tone dripping with glee. “Rome does not reward hesitation.”

The gladiator’s eyes flicked toward the emperor’s throne, then back to his opponent. Whatever trace of pity or doubt had surfaced vanished in an instant. With a guttural roar, he brought his sword down in a swift, decisive arc. The blade cut through flesh and bone, silencing Vincent forever. His lifeless body slumped forward, blood pooling around him like a dark, spreading shadow.

The hall erupted into chaos. Some cheered wildly, reveling in the violence, while others turned away, their faces pale with discomfort. Senators exchanged uneasy glances, their whispered conversations charged with the weight of what they had just witnessed.

Macrinus watched the aftermath with a glint of satisfaction in his eyes. The younger gladiator stood amidst the carnage, blood-splattered and victorious, his sword lowered but still gripped tightly. His gaze scanned the room, taking in the mix of horror and admiration etched on the faces of those present. There was no triumph in his expression—only a simmering, unrelenting rage that seemed to consume him whole.

The younger gladiator stood amidst the silence of the aftermath, blood dripping from his blade, his chest heaving with exertion. Slowly, deliberately, he released his grip on the sword, letting it fall with a metallic clang next to Vincent’s lifeless body. His blood-smeared face betrayed no triumph—only exhaustion, resignation, and a haunted look that seemed to fix on a distant point beyond the throne hall.

Applause shattered the quiet like a sudden thunderclap. It began with a single pair of hands—Geta’s—clapping with fervor as he rose from his throne, his face alight with a sickly enthusiasm.

“Remarkable!” Geta exclaimed, his voice filled with twisted admiration. He clapped harder, descending the dais with a gleam in his eye. “Truly remarkable!”

The audience hesitated, unsure whether to join in. Some senators clapped weakly; others exchanged uneasy glances. The younger gladiator, however, did not react. His gaze remained fixed on the ground, his shoulders heavy with weariness.

Geta turned sharply to Macrinus, his tone now congratulatory. “Macrinus, congratulations on such an acquisition.”

Macrinus inclined his head humbly, though his eyes sparkled with a calculated satisfaction. “I am honored, your majesty. My only wish is to serve.”

Geta’s attention shifted back to the gladiator. He stepped closer, peering at him with the curiosity one might reserve for an exotic animal. “Remarkable,” he repeated, his voice softer now, almost to himself. “From where do you hail, warrior? Speak!”

The gladiator did not respond. His expression remained impassive, his silence unyielding.

“I said, speak,” Geta snapped, his earlier fascination hardening into irritation. His demand echoed in the grand chamber, bouncing off the marble walls.

Before the tension could mount further, Macrinus intervened smoothly. “He is from the colonies, your majesty,” he said with a slight bow. “His native tongue is all he understands.”

Macrinus’s gaze flicked toward the gladiator, a subtle warning in his eyes. The silent exchange was almost imperceptible, but the young man’s jaw tightened in defiance. Against Macrinus’s unspoken command, he took a step forward, his bloodied figure cutting a striking silhouette in the flickering torchlight.

His voice, hoarse but steady, broke the silence. “The gates of hell are open night and day. Smooth is the descent and easiest the way.” His lips curled into a bitter smile as he continued, his tone growing softer, almost wistful. “But to come back from hell and to view the cheerful skies—in this, the task and mighty lies.”

A hush fell over the hall. His words hung in the air like smoke, heavy with meaning. The crowd, accustomed to blood and spectacle but unprepared for poetry, stirred uncomfortably. Geta’s smile faltered, his earlier cheer replaced by a pensive frown. For a brief moment, the weight of the words seemed to pierce through his shallow bravado, stirring something he couldn’t quite grasp—and didn’t want to.

Macrinus seized the moment, his tone light but deliberate. “Vergil, your majesty,” he said with a small smile. “A poet whose wisdom endures.”

The younger gladiator’s gaze shifted to Macrinus, their eyes locking in a brief, charged moment. Then, with visible effort, he lowered his head, as though the act of bowing were heavier than any blade he had wielded.

Caracalla broke the tension with a bark of laughter. Rising from his seat, he strode toward the scene, clapping his hands once in mockery. “Poetry!” he exclaimed, his voice dripping with amusement. “How unexpected! By the gods, I was prepared for brute savagery, not eloquence.”

He laughed again, his shoulders shaking as he circled the gladiator like a predator appraising its prey. “Very clever,” he said, his tone shifting to one of rare approval. “My goodness, Macrinus, you’ve outdone yourself.”

Macrinus, ever the sycophant, dipped his head in deference. “To amuse you, my lord, is my sole desire.”

Caracalla smirked, his amusement genuine. “You’ve done more than amuse. I was so bored, yet this... this is something worth my attention.” He gestured toward the gladiator with a lazy sweep of his arm. “What a paradox—a killer with the soul of a poet.”

Macrinus let out a low, measured chuckle. “Such contrasts, your majesty, are what make life in Rome endlessly fascinating.”

Geta, regaining his composure, turned his gaze back to the gladiator. His earlier unease was gone, replaced by the cold weight of imperial disdain. “We are amused,” he declared, his voice sharp, each word delivered with a pointed finality. He stepped closer, locking eyes with the younger man. “We are amused,” he repeated, his tone now almost a challenge.

The gladiator held Geta’s gaze, his face unreadable. For a long, tense moment, neither man looked away. Finally, the gladiator inclined his head ever so slightly, a gesture that was neither submission nor defiance—only acknowledgment.

Satisfied, Geta turned sharply on his heel, ascending the dais once more. “Well done, Macrinus,” he said without looking back. “Let us hope your... gladiator... continues to entertain.”

Macrinus bowed low, his face a mask of humility. But as he straightened, his eyes followed the gladiator with a glint of triumph. His plans were unfolding perfectly, and he knew the next act would be even grander.

The gladiator was then led by Macrinus into the small, stone bathhouse. The room was simple, the rough stone walls and dim light casting shadows in every corner. Steam rose from the water, and the air was thick with the scent of earth and sweat. The gladiator sank into the bath, the hot water a rare moment of relief, allowing him a few minutes of peace after the chaos of the arena.

Macrinus sat nearby, his eyes observing the young man with a calculating look. He produced two golden coins from his robes and set them gently on the stone beside him, the sound of the metal clinking against the surface oddly loud in the quiet room.

“You fought well today,” Macrinus said, his tone neutral, but his eyes assessing. “But you were lucky, too.”

The young gladiator, water dripping from his body, lifted his gaze and sat up a little straighter, wiping the wet strands of hair from his face. He met Macrinus’s eyes, but his voice was soft, tinged with something that might have been weariness or understanding. “The lines you recited. You didn’t learn that in Africa, I know that.”

The gladiator’s lips twitched slightly, a faint smile. “Good verse travels far.”

Macrinus clicked his tongue, his gaze never leaving the young man. “Who taught you poetry?”

“A captured Roman officer,” the gladiator replied with a shrug, his voice flat but not without a trace of irony. “I was posted as a guard over him. He used to tell us tales to pass the time.”

Macrinus tilted his head slightly, intrigued. “And what became of this prisoner?”

The gladiator chuckled darkly, his eyes briefly flicking down to the water. “Well… we ate him. As barbarians do.”

Macrinus’s lips twitched, a quiet laugh escaping him. “As barbarians do,” he echoed, clearly entertained by the casual brutality in the young man’s tone. “Where were you born?”

The gladiator’s expression hardened as he looked up again, his voice cutting through the tension. “Why does my past matter if it’s my future to die in the arena?”

Macrinus’s smirk deepened, his eyes glinting with something unreadable. “Your fate has already been decided.”

The gladiator’s brow furrowed, his posture stiffening. “You’re going to kill me now?”

Macrinus chuckled, the sound almost too casual. “No. Worse.”

The gladiator blinked, confusion flickering across his face. “Worse?”

Macrinus’s gaze grew sharper, more deliberate. “I’m going to let you live.”

A beat passed, and then Macrinus leaned forward slightly. “The emperors have received a gift... and because of your performance today, they’ve decided to let you guard it. To become its protector.”

The young man frowned, his brow furrowing even further. “A guard?” His voice held disbelief. “And what am I supposed to be guarding?”

Macrinus straightened, brushing a hand over his robes before answering. His voice was laced with quiet authority, as though the matter was already settled in his mind. “A woman.”

The word hung in the air between them, thick with implication. The gladiator’s frown deepened, his body still, but his eyes narrowed with the weight of the question he didn’t ask. Guard a woman? Was this some cruel twist of fate, some mockery of freedom? His fate, it seemed, had only shifted from one cage to another.

The young man looked down, the weight of the moment pressing down on him. He exhaled sharply, as if trying to release the frustration he felt. Macrinus didn’t speak immediately, simply watching him with that unreadable gaze that had become so familiar in their brief exchange.

"What’s your name?" Macrinus asked after a beat, his tone neither kind nor harsh, but carrying a strange sense of finality—as though the question had been a long time coming.

The gladiator clenched his jaw, a flash of hesitation in his eyes. He thought for a moment, then finally relented. "Hanno," he replied, the name barely escaping his lips, as though the very utterance of it was a burden he couldn’t quite bear.

Macrinus’s lips curved into a small, calculating smile. "Hanno," he repeated, testing the name on his tongue. “Do not forget,” he said, his words measured and deliberate, each one wrapped in a cold edge. “Even if you will be this woman’s loyal guardian, you are my property.”

The gladiator’s expression remained hard, but there was a flicker of something behind his eyes—resentment, perhaps, or a simmering rage at the absurdity of it all. To go from warrior to mere keeper of someone else’s prisoner—it was a mockery of everything he’d fought for, everything he had survived.

Macrinus studied him for a moment longer, and his voice softened ever so slightly, though it held no sympathy. "Enjoy your new life," he said, the words dripping with irony. "You’ll find it’s just as hard to escape from as the last one."

Hanno said nothing, but his gaze, now fixed on the water, held a darkness in it that spoke volumes. His fate had shifted—but it had not improved. The chains were still there, perhaps just wrapped in a new form, but just as inescapable.

Macrinus took one last look at him, “I will send for you in a time and you will meet with your…new fate” and he then turned to leave, his footsteps echoing in the silence. As the door closed behind him, the only sound left in the room was the gentle ripple of the water—and the weight of a future that felt as heavy as the stone walls that enclosed it.

The cold stone floor beneath Hanno’s feet was a familiar discomfort, but today, with each step toward the unknown, it felt heavier. He was led through the corridors of the palace, shackled by more than just the chains on his wrists. Every stride was a reminder of the new role that awaited him, the role Macrinus had so generously decided for him.

Macrinus walked beside him, his usual air of smug detachment taking on a more insidious quality as he spoke. "When you see her, keep your gaze on the ground," he said, voice light, as if offering a casual suggestion. "The emperors believe that until they have seen her beauty themselves, no one else can. Think of it as... a sacred privilege. No one else gets the honor of truly witnessing her unless they say so."

Hanno did not reply, his thoughts swirling with confusion and resentment. What was this? He was a gladiator, a warrior forged in blood and sweat, yet here he was, expected to kneel at the feet of some noblewoman whose beauty was apparently so sacred it had to be concealed from the world. He clenched his jaw, his gaze fixed resolutely downward, though his mind churned with questions. What did it even mean to be her guard? What was she like? What had he done to deserve this absurd fate?

Macrinus was still talking, unfazed by Hanno’s silence. "She doesn’t know the language," he added with a smirk, looking at Hanno sideways. "As if you'd have much to say to her anyway, but just in case you’re feeling chatty, best keep your tongue to yourself. Speak only when spoken to. Think of it as a very... one-sided conversation."

Hanno fought the urge to respond. Oh, this will be fun, he thought bitterly. Guard a woman who doesn't even know the language, trapped in some gilded cage like an animal on display. I’m the lucky one, aren’t I?

As they neared the chambers, they were interrupted by the sudden appearance of a woman—a formidable figure who strode into their path with the confidence of someone who had lived a thousand lives in the halls of power. Pompeia. Her eyes were sharp, calculating, as she assessed the two men with a single, penetrating glance.

"Macrinus," she said, her voice laced with suspicion. "What is your purpose so close to my lady’s chambers?"

Macrinus smiled, a perfect mockery of politeness. “Ah, Pompeia,” he greeted her, his tone syrupy sweet. “You know the emperors. Their infinite wisdom and gracefulness have bestowed upon our dear lady a loyal protector—an unyielding guardian, if you will.”

Pompeia’s gaze slid over Hanno, scanning him from head to toe with barely concealed disdain. She let out a quiet sigh, almost as if she was humoring him. “An amusement, they seek, I see.”

Macrinus held up his hands in mock surrender. “Nothing of that sort, I assure you. Quite the opposite, in fact. He is here to serve, nothing more. Don’t we all serve in this great empire of ours?”

Pompeia, clearly unamused by his theatrics, narrowed her eyes but said nothing for a moment. Hanno stood still, his muscles tense, his thoughts a tangled knot. His mind wandered to the absurdity of it all—his fate now dependent on the whims of the emperors, the same men who had turned him from a free man into nothing more than a pawn on their board. He tried to suppress the anger that burned in his chest, but it was difficult.

Pompeia finally spoke, her tone resigned. “Very well then. All of you go, and you,” she pointed sharply at Hanno, “come with me.”

There was no room for hesitation, no choice but to comply. Hanno’s heart pounded in his chest as Pompeia turned, leading him toward the chambers. Macrinus flashed him a smirk that could have been mistaken for sympathy—if sympathy was a weapon. “Don’t worry,” Macrinus called after him. “You’ll find your place in no time. Remember, you’re a servant here. You have one purpose and one purpose only: to protect. Don’t get any other ideas.”

Hanno barely heard him. His mind was a storm of unanswered questions and dark thoughts. Protect? He still wasn’t sure what that even meant in this world of endless power games and shifting allegiances. What kind of protection did she need? What did she think of him, this stranger assigned to guard her? Was she another cruel twist of fate, or was there something more to this strange new role?

Pompeia led Hanno through the labyrinthine halls of the imperial palace, each corridor grander and more opulent than the last. The marble floors beneath his feet were cold, but they shimmered with gold accents, and the air itself seemed to thrum with the weight of centuries of power. Everywhere he looked, his eyes were assaulted by the splendor—velvet drapes, gold-leafed statues, intricate mosaics depicting gods and emperors in eternal victory. The scent of incense, thick with myrrh and frankincense, mingled with something sweeter, more elusive—a rare flower from some distant corner of the empire. He could not place it, but it only added to the dreamlike atmosphere that surrounded him. Every step deeper into the palace felt like he was drifting further from the world he knew, from the dirt and blood of the arena, into a realm of pure opulence and power.

They stopped before a grand door, the wood heavy and dark, carved with scenes from myth: gods in motion, heroes locked in eternal battle. Pompeia pushed it open, and the sound of the door creaking seemed to echo in the silence, as though it were ushering in some long-anticipated event. The room that lay beyond was like a vision from the gods themselves.

It was a world of silk and gold, where every surface gleamed with luxury, as though the very air shimmered with wealth. Rich tapestries hung from the walls, their designs vivid and intricate, depicting scenes of royal banquets, noble hunts, and gods bathed in light. Heavy curtains swayed gently in the warm breeze that filtered through unseen windows. The room was alive with color, with the flickering light of candles that danced in the shadows. The air was thick with the scent of jasmine and something sweeter, intoxicating in its exotic beauty.

At the center of the room, four girls—young women, really—sat in quiet conversation, their laughter like the soft tinkling of bells. At the sight of Hanno, they immediately rose to their feet, eyes wide with curiosity. Soft gasps filled the air, their voices lilting and musical, the words flowing in a language he could not understand. Each sound, each murmur, felt foreign to him, intensifying his sense of alienation. He felt as though he were intruding into a world far beyond his own understanding.

His gaze flickered from one girl to another, but it wasn’t until the curtains at the far side of the room parted—slowly, deliberately—that his eyes were drawn to her.

Her.

It was as though the rest of the world fell away, the vibrant tapestries, the girls standing in hushed awe, the very air itself fading into nothingness. She stood before him, bathed in the soft golden light that seemed to halo around her, as though she were more than a woman, more than flesh and bone. Her beauty was not merely physical, but seemed to radiate from within—something pure, unearthly, untouched by the world’s cruelty.

Gods… Hanno thought, his breath catching in his throat. He felt as though the ground beneath his feet had cracked open, and he was falling—falling into her, into her gaze, into something greater than himself. She was... perfect. There was no other word for it.

His gaze traveled over her, unable to resist the pull of her presence. She was so delicate, so graceful, that it felt like looking at something impossibly rare. Every inch of her—her skin, smooth and golden, the way the light seemed to caress the curves of her form—was like a work of art, sculpted by the gods themselves. Her hair cascaded around her shoulders in waves of dark silk, and her eyes, though distant, seemed to carry an unspoken weight, an ancient knowledge that set them apart from the rest of the world.

How can someone be this... this pure? Hanno wondered, his mind reeling as he drank in every detail. She doesn’t belong here. She doesn’t belong in a world like mine.

His heart began to thud in his chest, each beat louder than the last, echoing in his ears. A strange sensation rose in him, something both foreign and familiar, a recognition of her that went beyond mere sight. She was not just beautiful—there was something in her that called to him, a silent invitation, a summons to something deeper. He could not explain it.

But as his gaze lingered, something in him shifted—a cold knot of fear tightening in his stomach. His eyes had wandered too far, had lingered too long. She was—too much. The fear of dishonoring her, of tarnishing the sanctity of this moment, washed over him in a rush. His body stiffened, and instinctively, his head dropped. His gaze snapped downward, ashamed, as though his very presence had soiled the purity of the room.

His heart felt as though it was sinking, as though the weight of her perfection could crush him beneath it. His knees, trembling with something like reverence and terror, begged him to fall, to kneel before her in an offering. But his mind—his broken, soldier’s mind—held him firm. He had no right. No right to look upon her, no right to feel this, to want this.

Pompeia’s voice cut through the silence, sharp and clear. "My lady?" she asked, addressing the figure in the center of the room.

It was as if the world returned to him, the sound rushing back into focus. Hanno dared to lift his eyes, but only just enough to see her expression, to catch a fleeting glimpse of her reaction.

She had been watching him, her gaze steady and unreadable, though there was something in her eyes, something like… recognition. As if she knew him, as if she had always known him. Hanno blinked, the sensation unnerving him more than he cared to admit. He quickly averted his gaze, eyes once again fixed firmly to the ground.

Pompeia’s voice softened, her smile curling into something almost secretive. "This is Lady Tillotama," she said, her tone heavy with pride. "The pride of the Indian soil."

Hanno didn’t need the introduction. The moment his eyes had met hers, the moment she had stepped into his world, he had already known her. The weight of her presence, of her gaze upon him, had already branded itself into his soul. There was no need for words. She was everything.

As Tillotama watched him step into the room, her breath caught in her throat. There was something about him, something that called to her in a way she couldn’t explain. He stood tall, solid—yet there was an air of hesitation about him, a wariness she could not place.

When her eyes met his, it was like the entire world shifted. Time seemed to slow, the hum of the palace, the soft murmurs of the girls around her, all faded into nothing. All that remained was him. His eyes—dark, deep, and full of something unspoken—held her captive, and in that brief moment, she felt an overwhelming sense of recognition. She didn’t know him, not truly. But she knew him in a way that bypassed language, bypassed everything.

Could it be? she thought, her heart fluttering with a strange, unfamiliar excitement. Do I know him? Have I always known him?

Her heart quickened as she stepped closer, drawn to him by some invisible force. She didn’t understand it. She didn’t even know if he felt it too, but in the depths of her chest, there was a certainty, a knowing.

It was as if the gods had woven their fates together, even before this moment. She couldn’t explain why—why this man, this stranger, should affect her so—but she felt it, deep inside her. He was here for her, and she could already feel his presence, like a promise made long ago.

[worseforwords]

Food for Thought (Ona Batlle x Reader)

“Indian?” Ona asked, not looking up from her phone. “Yeah, sure.” You couldn’t remember the last time you had a proper conversation with your girlfriend that didn’t involve food, training schedules or errands. You missed your usual late night conversations, talking about anything and everything for hours, being able to confide in her, and you knew she probably felt the same. Yet neither of you spoke up about it, too afraid of the outcome and instead getting stuck in a cycle of pretending everything was fine, both suffering in silence.

It all started at the euros. When Spain lost against England in the quarter finals, Ona was heartbroken. You had never seen her as devastated as she looked back then, and all you wanted to do was be there for her. There was nothing you could do however, because unlike for the Spaniard, the tournament was not over for you. After the loss she took some time off, but she did attend the final at Wembley, for which you thanked her for profusely as she told you how proud she was of you. 

After your big win, she briefly joined the Lionesses celebrations, before leaving early, stating you should enjoy your achievement with your teammates. Two days later, she canceled on the holiday you had planned with some of the Lionesses she was supposed to join, essentially giving you the same reasoning. Both times, you hid your disappointment, assuming she still just needed some space after her big loss, preferring not to celebrate with the winning team, which you could understand. When you returned from your trip, glowing and with a suitcase full of stories, you suddenly felt nervous to talk to your girlfriend, with whom you usually shared everything. You felt an immediate tension between the both of you, and decided to keep your stories to yourself for the time being. She never asked any questions, and instead you hung out with other teammates and friends to catch up and talk about your time away, determined to give her al the time and space she needed.

Your first weeks back your schedule was crazy packed, with both Manchester United being proud of their Euros winners, and the Lionesses now being national heroes, you kept being demanded for interviews and other events. Whilst fun at first, all the fuzz quickly became exhausting, and not being able to talk to your girlfriend about it made even worse. However, you knew she would give anything to be in your position right now, and she had a lot going on herself with all the Spanish team drama happening, so you kept to yourself, struggling in silence, patiently waiting for Ona to be okay enough. 

Some time went by and her distant behaviour started to get on your nerves. You had never liked being the center of attention, and your newfound spotlight quickly started to drain you. You needed your girlfriend and she still wasn’t there, so your pity turned into bitterness. You weren’t one to suddenly blow up however, so you kept your anger mostly to yourself, thereby distancing yourself even further from Ona.

The ringing of the doorbell brought your mind back to where you were sitting in the apartment you shared with your girlfriend. Ona had already gotten up to accept the food from the delivery guy. You put out plates and glasses and the two of you filled up on the Indian take-away in silence. You were almost finished, when a rather obnoxious feeling started to creep it’s way up to your stomach. “Ona,”, you started as she, to your surprise, actually looked up at you, “something feels off.” “What do you mean,” she said, looking back at her plate, anxiously combing her fork through the rice on her plate, “we’re fine, right?” “No, not that.” You said, ignoring how she was dodging what she though was your question. “I don’t feel good. I think something in the food wasn’t right.” You managed to get out, before sprinting towards the toilet, almost tripping over Ona’s hoodie she had carelessly tossed on the floor earlier on your way there. 

You reached the toilet just in time as what felt like the entire content of the meal you just had came right back out through you mouth with a loud retching noise. To your surprise, you felt two hands quickly grabbing a hold of your hair, making sure you didn’t puke on it. As you felt your stomach gurgling and doing summersaults, all you could really thing about was Ona’s blatant deflection earlier, stating that the two of you were fine. Maybe it was your temperature starting to rise, but something in you finally snapped. “We’re not fine though, are we?” You got out right before throwing up once more. “Y/N, now is not the time to talk about this.” She answered, a pitiful expression on her face as you hung above the toilet, gasping for air. “Oh no, we’re talking about this Ona. I’m done pretending.” You said when you finally caught your breath. “Por favor, Y/N” She sounded desperate. “No, Ona, we’re doing this n-” “No, I mean, m-move over please!” She interrupted, basically pushing you aside as she leapt towards the toilet. 

Apparently the food poisoning hit her as well now. You grabbed her hair just in time, holding it back and quickly pulling it into a messy bun. She made a grunting sound as she too emptied here stomach trough the wrong end. You remained silent as she caught her breath, before eventually giving in. “Never mind, I’m sorry, we can talk later. I’ll leave you be.” “No! Don’t leave. Como siempre.” She mumbled that last part. “I’m sorry, what did you say?” You said, irritation clear in your voice. “Nothing, forget it.” You knew what she said, you just couldn’t believe it and you wanted her to say it again, to see if she meant it. “No, say it again.” You said, standing your ground as she contemplated her response. “I just- I-” She stuttered, as your impatience grew. “You what, Ona?” You sharply spoke, before another wave of sickness hit her stomach, preventing her from answering. She held a finger up in the air as she hurled once more, signalling that it was her turn to speak once she was done. 

“Como siempre, like always. You never have time for me anymore, and whenever you are with me, you barely acknowledge my existence!” She finally spoke, igniting a fire inside you as you felt it was the opposite. “This is about the euros isn’t it? You’re jealous!” It was as if her pupils caught fire as she sharply turned her head towards you. “Jealous!? Really, Y/N? Wow, very mature. I guess fame really did go to your head.” “What is that supposed to mean!? I’m not even famous.” At this point both of you were yelling and the bathroom tiles echoing your enraged voices combined with your beating headache didn’t help, only fuelling the growing fury inside you. “Sure, miss mediaday is everyday.” Ona said, a heated tear fleeing her eye. “So you are jealous?” You exclaimed, feeling like she had just proven your point. “No! Joder, Y/N,” she started, loud and and outraged, “I just-“ she suddenly became more quiet as more tears filled her eyes, “I just miss you.” 

Her words had you taken aback, as you were overwhelmed by a sudden feeling of guilt. “You miss me?” You asked softly, tears now also flooding your eyes. “Yeah, of course I miss you. If anything I’m jealous of the camera, because it gets to see you all day.” You were quiet for a bit as your tried to gather your thoughts. You felt immensely guilty, but you also couldn’t help but still be a bit bitter about her behaviour, as she played just as much of a part in all of it as you did. 

“Y/N?” She said, as she noticed your mind drifting away. “Can you say something please?” “I don’t know what to say, I just- why didn’t you say something?” “Because you were getting what you have always deserved, and I really am proud of you. I was afraid of seeming petty and I just didn’t want to take away from your glory.” She answered honestly. “Glory?” You gave a phony laugh. “It’s hardly that. I hate it. I haven’t felt like myself for weeks now and the worst part is, I feel like I’m loosing my girlfriend in the process.” It was now Ona’s turn to give you a regretful look. You both remained quiet as you sat on the cold bathroom floor until both your stomachs had settled down a bit and you finally dared to distance yourselves from the toilet. 

“You’re burning up.” Ona said as she put her hand on your forehead. “So are you” You said, doing the same. Without speaking, you quietly agreed to continue the argument later, as the exhaustion from the fever took over both your bodies. You placed buckets, water bottles, and paracetamol on both sides of the bed and as you lay down, you felt Ona’s body crawl against you. 

You woke up about 11 hours later, a sweaty mess on a soaked mattress. Your body felt heavy as you sat yourself up on the bed. You certainly felt a lot better than yesterday, but your pumping headache hadn’t left and you felt weak as you dragged your shivering, cold body into the bathroom. You turned on the shower and let out a deep breath as the hot water rolled over your skin. The sudden change from cold to warm made your brain go foggy and your legs feel even weaker. The realisation came too late as you couldn’t grab onto anything before everything faded to black.

You slowly came back to life as you felt your head was resting on something that felt human. You opened up your eyes to be met with Ona’s concerned expression looking down on you as you lay on her lap whilst she sat on the bathroom floor. “Hi.” She said softly. “Hi,” you replied, “sorry for waking you.” She giggled. “You idiot. How are you feeling?” “Dizzy, you?” “Like somebody shook my body up and down all night long and now I’m all mixed up.” You chuckled at the metaphor. “Want to watch a movie and stay on the couch all day?” “Sounds good.”

You watched Encanto in a comfortable silence, both taking small naps whenever you felt your eyes starting to close. At some point during the afternoon you had texted your mom, and just about when the movie was done, she arrived at your place. Your mom had always been a very caring mother, so it didn’t surprise you that she showed up with a pot of homemade soup and some more paracetamol. She put the pot on the stove and without being asked she started cleaning up your apartment. She threw the bedsheets in the laundry, putting up fresh ones immediately after, she did your dishes and she even threw out the litter with the food that had caused all this still in it. 

Before she left she handed the both of you a bowl of warm soup, stating you needed something in those empty stomachs if you wanted to get better. You carefully ate some of it to find out your mom was once again right, as the salty substance immediately made you feel better. You figured Ona felt the same way, as she let out a satisfied hum. 

“I’m sorry.” Ona said as she sat her bowl down on the coffee table. “I should have been there for you these past weeks.” “Ona, it’s okay, you didn’t know.” You replied softly. “No it’s not. I should have known. I know you, Y/N, but I ignored you and I ignored the signs. I was an asshole and I’m really sorry.” She said sincerely, looking at you with a genuine expression, to which you returned a pitiful one. “Yeah well, me too,” you started, “I’m sorry for acting so distant and not making any time for you. Also I’m sorry for assuming you were jealous.” 

You put your bowl down as well and moved over to her side of the couch to cuddle up into her arms. You lay there in silence for a while, before Ona spoke again. “I don’t want to lose you.” She said softly. “Why would you lose me?” You said worriedly. “The way we acted, it’s not healthy. We really need better communication” She responded. “You’re right,” you said, getting up to grab a pen and a piece of paper, “let’s make some rules then.” Ona giggled at your sudden initiative. She looked at you affectionately as you sat down. “I love you.” She said. “I love you too.” You replied, before adding: “That’s rule one, we love each other, and we won’t let each other forget it!” Ona giggled again as you wrote it down. 

After composing an extensive list of communication guidelines, you cuddled up against your girlfriend once again as she placed tiny, loving kisses on top of your head. “Let’s go on vacation together soon, just the two of us.” She said in between pecks. “Yes, I’d love that.” You answered, as you closed your eyes, feeling yourself drift off again, in the arms of your dream girl.

[witchthewriter]

Probably a weird question, but which HP characters do you imagine as LGBTQIA or/and POC? (Because let’s make Joke Rollling/She Who Must Not Be Named… ANGRY!! 😏)

I would LOVE TO! J.K.Rowling is Rita Skeeter to me. Also you should look up 'The Worst Witch,' because it's basically Harry Potter.

𝑯𝑬𝑹𝑴𝑰𝑶𝑵𝑬

Most definitely black, or what if she came from an Indian family who wanted her to marry and the Wizarding World was her escape? She studies hard because this new world is a second chance for freedom!

I also wish Hermione was bisexual/pansexual. She and Ginny, or even she and Cho would make such a gorgeous couple!

𝑳𝑼𝑵𝑨

I think it would have been cool if she was an albino (I am so sorry if that's not the right way to say it. I don't want to offend anyone). Her long white hair, pale skin, translucent lashes and brows. With beautiful purple eyes (this is actually how I imagined the Targaryens to look, not just having white hair).

She is definitely demisexual; only feeling attraction after developing a friendship first. I can also see Luna as trans!

𝑯𝑨𝑹𝑹𝒀

I've seen some fancasts and fanart of Harry with his ethnicity being Indian, or Pakistani. Which I'm completely okay with. Maybe even James is half black, and that makes Harry a quarter, so it's still noticeable - and another thing that the Dursley's are horrible to him about.

I think Harry is Bi/Pan - I have this headcanon that he had a crush on Oliver Wood, and Katie Bell when he was in first year.

𝑹𝑶𝑵

I honestly just see Ron as a normal hetero male. Honestly, there's nothing queer about him at all. But he is very supportive of his friends and family as well as the LGBTQIA+ community. He would always be at Pride with whoever asked him, and have anyone's back who needed it.

And the Weasley's are known for their red hair, so I think I would keep their heritage/ethnicity the same!

𝑫𝑼𝑴𝑩𝑬𝑳𝑫𝑶𝑹𝑬

YES, THIS MAN IS A GAY MAN. But I feel as though he's very monogamous; he will love one person, even if they do not love him back, for the rest of his life. Like with Grindelwald, Dumbledore couldn't stop the feelings he had - even though the man was turning into a pretty evil one.

𝑺𝑵𝑨𝑷𝑬

His sexuality always confused him. Because he was in love with Lily, truly in love with her. But sometimes he found James attractive, and he hated himself for it.

Shows himself as straight, but I think he's bisexual or at least bi-curious.

I think for his ethnicity, it can be the same. Pasty white skin, black hair, hooked nose. Maybe his family distantly came from a Mediterranean island?

𝑫𝑹𝑨𝑪𝑶

Oh, I think keeping Draco white ... and maybe all the Death Eaters white would be saying a lot. They're basically Nazi's. So that wouldn't change.

Draco is most definitely bisexual. He was so in love with Harry, feigning it as hate. Knowing everything about him, staring at him from across the room. When he was younger, it was easier to see it as hate. But then when he turned 16, he felt a pang of desire for the Potter boy and the self-loathing began.

𝑮𝑬𝑶𝑹𝑮𝑬

Falls in love very easily, but usually with a woman. Not to say he's completely hetero, I think he would be bi-curious, but I think he wants a wife with a big family.

𝑭𝑹𝑬𝑫

I actually think Fred would be polyamorous. The kind where the girlfriend is allowed another boyfriend, not like Sisterwives. No, no. Fred would be totally cool with having a wife who has a boyfriend, and they all live together. Fred's a little fruity as well. I think he's one of those people that 'don't like to put a label on things.'

𝑺𝑰𝑹𝑰𝑼𝑺

Pansexual. Pansexual. Pansexual. Doesn't care if you're trans, he loves a person for who they are, what they believe in, rather than what their bits are. One of the reasons why he ran away from home. He hates tradition.

I think the Black family could be from Sicily, I know that's not necessarily POC, I think with their darker features, they would easily reign from there. And Sicilians are known for always distinguishing themselves from any other Mediterranean culture.

𝑹𝑬𝑴𝑼𝑺

He always thought of himself as straight. But that was until he met Sirius and he developed such a big crush on him. I think Remus would be Biromantic towards women but Bisexual towards men.

𝑪𝑯𝑶

WHY THE HELL DID ROWLING CALL AN ASIAN PERSON, "CHO CHANG," PUT THEM IN THE "SMARTEST HOUSE". It's racism. That's how I see it. She does this with many characters, and it's ridiculous.

Anyway, I have no problem with Asian representation. But what if Cho was Native American? (I know Rowling made that whole other school but it was really problematic so to me, it doesn't exist).

Or have Cho as Chinese (maybe give her a proper Chinese name), and we can have another main character...like Hermione, or Katie Bell as Native American. I just think it would be interesting to see an exchange student from another country as well.

𝑮𝑰𝑵𝑵𝒀

Lesbian. Poly lesbian. All those boys she went out with in Hogwarts were actually just beards. And she was having a secret relationship with another girl in her year. However, the polyamory doesn't come out until she's in her 20s.

𝑩𝑰𝑳𝑳

Polysexual; sexual or romantic attraction to people with varying genders. Polysexual orientations include bisexuality, pansexuality, omnisexuality, and queer, among many others. Basically, he can be attracted to anyone. But Fleur was the one who captured his heart fully and wholely.

𝑪𝑯𝑨𝑹𝑳𝑰𝑬

Asexual; I know he isn't in the movies (WHY?!) but he spends all his time with Dragons, and I think that will always be his main love and passion.

[bohemian-nights]

did you hear the rumor that nettles might not be played by a black woman? rumor is its rhianne barreto, shes white and a quarter indian

Unfortunately yes🤦🏽‍♀️ All I can say is that it’s mostly “fans” cheering this on and actively wanting her to be Nettles because for some reason tan equals brown, Black people are never brown-skinned or can be described as such, therefore Nettles definitely isn’t Black even though she looks like this in canon:

The casting speculation is based on social media follows which haven’t always been the most accurate. I mean people said that Jessica Brown Findlay was going to play Alys based on the fact that she started following some of the cast(and I believe some of the crew). We saw how that turned out🤷🏽‍♀️

There are actually two Black women that I know of who are following some of the cast. Corinna Brown(left) and Karla-Simone Spence(right).

Either would be awesome if they were/are Nettles, but for some odd reason hardly anyone has pointed this out and no one is making(sh!t stirring) Reddit threads or tweeting up a storm and saying that they are Nettles🙃

In the event that Rhianne, a tan woman, who in addition to not being black, up until like two years ago only ever identified as white🙃 is Nettles, well it’s bye-bye HOTD and this racist fandom for me✌🏽Yeah I definitely won’t be watching or supporting the show after all the anti-Black and especially anti-Black women stunts they have pulled.

I for one haven’t forgotten how they lit Laena on fire and tried to make it seem like it was the “feminist” thing to do(thanks Sara Hess and whoever else approved that mess😊) along with turning her into an unloved wife which wasn’t in the book(s) when she was a white woman🙃 Decisions which mind you a lot of the fandom went along with and feverishly approved of for reasons that we won’t get into☺️

Anyway, it’s all just speculation from (primarily) rabidly anti-Black fans. Until we actually get a confirmed casting nothing is certain🤷🏽‍♀️

[christinescupofcoffee]

Quarter After Twelve

Chapter Four: Four Weddings and a Gunshot

Allison rolled over onto his side, away from Skylar’s willowy body. It was around midnight at that point, and he needed to rest. He needed to rest away from her in particular. Indeed, he lay there on the other side of the bed, so far in fact that the crests of his knees hung over the edge of the mattress. He needn’t touch her, especially not after that evening, not after yet another quarrel. It wasn’t until he caught the sound of her heavy breathing over there on the other side of the bed, and he knew that he was safe again.

At least for the time being.

It wasn’t being an expat on the west coast of Australia, especially when he strode out to the porch for a clear view out to the Indian Ocean and he expected to fall in without warning. It was what he had, and especially when Skylar had no intention on leaving that little bungalow for a bigger apartment, and one closer to Perth no less. It was this one small corner of Australia that not only looked out to the ocean but gave him the feeling that they could very easily go down to Antarctica from there: the winds were often downright vicious this time of year with the introduction of springtime, even though he swore that they would be well-acquainted with it.

Allison hailed from Birmingham, where Skylar came from even further away in Pennsylvania. The wind tunnel of Britain and the bitter cold of the Northeast.

However, this cold was something else, especially as the rains pelted down on the jetty not too far from where they lived. At least it finally stopped raining that evening, and he could relish in his time alone, away from her.

This was one of those nights where he asked himself “why did I ever get married.”

A young man of Portuguese and Spanish heritage who had broken free from the grungy, musty corners of Birmingham and escaped to America, where he had met Skylar in New York City. They had vacationed in Miami in the weeks following their wedding when the invasion happened. To take her to safety, Allison had put down most of his life savings for a small bungalow and a pair of plane tickets out to Australia, with the thought in mind that they could be as far away from America as possible. Be as far away as the ship was sinking right before their very eyes.

That was only a week ago. They had only been married for a little more than two months when he began to regret ever marrying her. It wasn’t so much worrying about her family because he worried about his parents and grandparents back in England, but she would argue with him over every last little thing, from the fact they lived on the coast looking out to the Indian Ocean to the fact that he liked extra pepper on his scrambled eggs and beans on toast.

A beautiful young man with long fine dark hair down past his shoulders, and when the southern sun hit the crown of his head just right, it seemed to make his hair look like wild honey. His tender brown eyes and pristine skin would make him a catch for any girl in the northeastern United States, much less in Birmingham or in Western Australia. He stood tall and slender, and he moved about as if he had been crafted out by a man on a mission to create the perfect boy. As if he had been mined out from those depths in the heart of Britain.

Skylar meanwhile stood short and stout with a cheesy hairdo which she had straight up told him came as a blast from her past.

“I had the same hair when I was five years old,” she so cheerfully told him.

Allison found it rather odd but endearing nonetheless that a woman of her stature could be so in touch with her childlike self.

But the bubble had burst, and now they were alone in the land down under with nothing to do than to fight each other: Allison did however have a job lined up with the bakery in town. He knew it was the only thing that kept him from tying a noose around his neck, especially as he had spent the rest of his money on paying their rent the day before. Given they were expatriates, they needed to wait until they could receive the full benefits of their neighbors.

The aurora was alive that night, much to his surprise. The veil of red, gold, and green proved to be his comfort, especially given the sheer brightness of the colors.

Maybe it was a sign, a sign to file for divorce and then make his covert return to England, or at least make his escape up to Perth, away from her and away from the immense winds of the Southern Ocean.

Allison sighed through his nose and watched the veil of lights beyond his window. Almost within the span of a single evening, the big bay window with the view out to the water had become his window. It somewhat reminded him of all the times that he had fallen asleep at his grandparents’ house in Dover, when he would gaze out the window to the swirling clouds from the rainstorms coming down from Scandinavia, all of them heavy and orange with snow and sleet.

Skylar could return to Pennsylvania as far as he cared.

But even when he closed his eyes, he could still hear the quarrel from before. The way she spoke so curtly and the way that her words were laced with utmost venom and anger, and yet he had long forgotten what she was angry about with him. She seemed to be angry with so many things when it came to him that he had completely lost track of what things she was angry about.

But as long as he had himself, as long as he was alone and away from the cold black venom that swirled underneath that little pug nose and squashed face, he could regain his composure and perhaps find a plan out of there and a hundred miles away up to Perth.

Allison had dozed off when he was woken up by the sound of shuffling. He was certain that it was nothing but then he felt something next to his head.

He opened his eyes, only to be met with the rounded black hole that was the barrel of a gun right in front of his face. 

The fading glow of the aurora lit his way.

Allison gripped onto his murderer’s wrists with both hands and pushed them back. The person fell off of him no problem, and he pushed them back onto the foot of the bed. Grunting, he pinned them down and hung over them: he had a mouthful of hair at the moment, but he could care less.

The aurora picked up again in the brightest shade of green yet.

He could see her face.

Skylar pulled the trigger right as he forced the barrel of the gun away from his face.

The pain was too much to bear as it spread across his chest and down the entirety of his body.

Allison fell to the top of the mattress in agony. The bright light of the aurora helped him see her about to pistol whip him, but then he shoved her off of him with all of his might. There was a loud metallic clang as she dropped the gun.

He lifted himself off the bed and punched her, hard, with all his might.

Skylar didn’t move, and he knew he had knocked her out.

Scrambling to the other side of the bed, he lunged for the phone, and he realized that he couldn’t move his legs. Indeed, he couldn’t feel anything below the waist.

“Shit—shit—” He picked up the cordless phone from his nightstand and dialed for help. It only rang once.

“What’s your emergency?” The Australian woman’s voice had never sounded more comforting to him.

“Uh, yes, my wife just shot me in the chest and now I can’t move,” he stammered out. He could hardly believe that he could even still talk given she had shot him in the chest. In fact, he could hardly believe that he was even still alive.

“Oh, dear lord! Okay, help is on the way. Where is your wife? Is she in the house with you?”

“Unfortunately, yes. I punched her and knocked her out.” He groaned and grunted as the gunshot throbbed hard and deep in his body.

“She shot you in the chest?”

“Yeah… it felt like buckshot, too. It spread across my chest like—like a wave. Ah!”

“Okay, okay, sir—an ambulance is coming right now.”

“Okay. Goddamn it—ah. Ah, thank you.”

With a seething groan, Allison hung up and glared at Skylar. How he wished to punch her, over and over again, but his legs could not move in the least. Breathing hard, he struggled to keep his act together, but it was hard to when he was losing blood and losing control of his temper on top of that.

“You… you fucking…” Blood filled his eyes as well as the tip of his nose as well as around his lips. Breathing hard, he knew he was losing blood, and he had no idea he could ever walk again, much less live at a normal level again.

But one thing remained for certain and that was the fact that he could no longer move his legs for the time being, and he could hear the sirens coming for them. And it was here that he wished that he could go back out to the porch for a view out to the Indian Ocean and to feel the winds on his face again, at least for one more time. But at least he had the lights in the sky to help him, otherwise, he would have to write his own obituary.

[iwriteasfotini]

Free

Sirius POV, first year Rating: Teen 588 words

Though the trio looked related, they were not showing the familial affection commonly on display on Platform Nine and Three-Quarters. The boys stood apart from the woman, whose black hair was pulled into a tight bun. The look on her face suggested a particularly unpleasant smell lingered under her nose. 

“I’m telling you Sirius, you put one toe out of line and I will drag you home by your ear,” Walburga Black hissed. She grabbed the back of his neck. “Do you hear me?”

Sirius rolled his eyes, and his mother squeezed hard. “Yes ma’am.”

“So many filthy muggle-lovers and diluted blood lines these days. If I had the time I’d put more work into advocating for a reformation on the enrollment qualifications.”

Sirius tuned his mother out. He whispered to his brother instead, “You’re going to be okay, right Reggie?”

Regulus’ eyes were wide with a combination of excitement and fear. Sirius understood. Excitement because Sirius was finally going to Hogwarts, something they had both dreamed about since they were little boys. Regulus only had to wait one year before he joined his brother. Fear because for the first time in his life, Regulus would be the only Black son at home with their deranged mother and absent father. 

“Sure, Sirius,” Regulus said. “But you will write to me, won’t you?”

“Of course,” Sirius insisted, “I’ll write you every day. From what I have heard classes won’t demand much this year. I’ll have plenty of time.” After several years of private tutoring, the first year course load was sure to be a piece of cake. At least this is what his cousins claimed. 

A laughing boy ran past the family, glasses glinting on his face, untidy black hair bouncing. Sirius and Regulus stepped back, closer to the wall. Both their eyes trained on the light hearted boy.

“James!” A woman’s accented voice called as she rushed along in his wake, pushing a trolly with a large trunk and owl cage on top of it. She was wearing a bright blue sari. 

“Let him go, Effie,” said a tall, dark skinned man, with the same accent Sirius suspected to be of an Indian dialect. “It’s all so exciting the first time.”

So this boy—James—was a first year as well. Sirius briefly wondered if he would make any new friends this year. He hoped so. 

“Sirius Black, are you even listening to me?” Walburga prodded him with her boney hand. 

“Yes, ma’am,” Sirius replied automatically. 

Walburga’s eyes bulged. “I was saying you had better tell the house-elves to take special care when laundering your tailored robes. I do not want a Black looking less than his best.”

Sirius grumbled, “Yes ma’am.” But he nudged Regulus and lifted up the hem of his button-down to reveal a patch of a turquoise which was most certainly not a Walburga approved shirt underneath. Sirius winked at Regulus and Regulus beamed. 

The train let out a long whistle.

“Go on,” Walburga pushed Sirius towards the train. They had already stowed his luggage in an empty compartment. Sirius grabbed Regulus’ hand and gave it a tight squeeze. The brothers locked eyes, both gave tiny nods. 

“And Sirius,” Walburga called after him as Sirius stepped onto the train, “I’ll be watching you.”

Sirius didn’t even bother to wave as his mother was already steering his brother down the platform. 

Finally, thought Sirius. Finally, I am free. 

He let out a long sigh and went to find the compartment where he had previously stowed his luggage.

...

This is from The Heir and The Spare - Chapter I: Glasses and Freckles

[thenxghtwemxt]

@classiqals | Ariyan and Ishani, The Maid's Quarters of the Mughal Empire's Apartments

This would not be their first action against authority, nor does Ishani expect it to be their last. But there is a sloppiness and second-rate spin to it that does not sit well. If they are to act in their own interests, they better win. Alas, it feels like anything but, and Ishani rounds the corner of the maid's quarters. A point of entry that, while guarded, could easily be bought with the same bloodied, Indian rupees as before. Ishani awaits her predecessor (though they do not concede yet). A dissatisfied scowl on her face as Ariyan finally approaches under the guise of cloaks and daggers.

"Those senseless, stupid mercenaries." Ishani nearly spits, arms crossed and brow furrowed. Dark, beady eyes dancing around them, ensuring no one can hear. "They were miserable failures. It was meant to be clean, seamless. Instead-" Her arms fly in exasperation. "I could have done better." In fact, Ishani has, and it's that knowledge that fuels her disenchantment with Ariyan as of late. When did she, the tortoise, begin outpacing the hare? "What of Rishabh, then? Still breathing?"

[softguarnere]

Like A Girl (Like A Man)

Shifty Powers x OFC

Chapter 31: The Place Where They Cried

Summary: He claps Zenie on the back with – somewhat – good cheer. When no one else in the room responds, Luz finally elaborates. “Hitler is dead.” A/N: Chapter title is the literal English translation of the Trail of Tears in Cherokee Also, sorry this is like three days late. I think we all know by now that time management is not my forte. Warnings: discussions of genocide (the Trail of Tears and the Holocaust), language, alcohol, mentions of war Taglist: @latibvles @liebgotts-lovergirl @lady-cheeky @mrs-murder-daddy @ithinkabouttzu @lieutenant-speirs

Germany, 1945

Though Granny herself had only met them once when she was a girl, she had mentioned to Zenie several times that they had a lot of family out in Oklahoma. She maintained a steady correspondence with them over the years, bridging the gaps of the diaspora. When Zenie had asked how their relations got so far away, Granny had told her stories so horrifying that they seemed like something out of a novel – stories of invaders barging into houses and telling families that they had only minutes to pack and be gone; stories of people being crowded into stockades where sickness spread between them like wildfire; and stories where those who survived were forced to march through the worst conditions until they reached a place called Indian Territory. Granny promised that they would make the trip out there, someday, when Zenie was older.

Now, as they make their way back to town, the scenes that Zenie has seen throughout the day mix with all the stories Granny once told her that rise, very suddenly, to the surface of her mind. If the smells and the sights are making everyone else nauseous, speechless, then the effect is worse on Zenie.

Didn’t she barge into homes, commandeer them as the families were forced out with only what they could carry? And this place . . . Whatever it is they’ve found, from what Liebgott has translated, is too familiar to the things that Granny once told her about the history of her own people. All the realizations hit her at once, overpowering her. Bile burns her throat. Guilt weighs heavy in her stomach. The word genocide never held so much weight before.

Hardly anyone speaks on the trip back into town. No one speaks when they return to the homes they’re quartered in. What is there to say? The things they saw in the woods today are unspeakable.

Most of her friends fall into seats in the living room. Brows are furrowed, faces are set, and everyone is quiet, but the act of being together – even sitting in silence – can make people feel less alone.

A vague realization registers somewhere within her: she can stay right here with them and, for once, not shut herself up in a lonely room like she would back at home, in some other lifetime that feels ever more distant now.

She’s lowering herself onto the sea green cushion of the overstuffed armchair when she catches a glimpse of him out the window. Through the glass, Shifty’s eyes flick over her, unseeing, then focus back on the street ahead of him as he heads back to his billet.

No one asks where she’s going when she jumps up, runs to the door, and rushes out into the street. “Shifty!”

The Virginian stops, turns. Their eyes meet, and she knows that he understands.

The door has barely shut behind them when Zenie falls into his arms, hiding her face in his shoulder. The foyer of the house is quiet except for the pace of their racing hearts, the occasional shocked breath.

“Shifty,” she whispers.

“I know.” He rubs a hand on her back. “I know.”

“Granny always said – “ A shudder overtakes her, her spine transforming itself into a tube of ice water as all the stories that she was too young to understand come back to her. “It happened here, too. It can happen anywhere.” Buried in his shoulder, she’s not sure if her next words are audible. “When will it end?”

Shifty’s posture goes rigid. The full meaning of her words must be hitting him. Maybe the stories about Removal in his own family are coming back to him, suddenly vivid now that he’s seen so much human suffering.

“Do you want to talk about it?” he offers in a whisper.

“No.” The answer is more of an accident, something that just slips out. But no. She doesn’t want to talk about it. It’s like sitting in the foxhole by herself after Bill and Joe got hit in Bastogne – it feels unreal. Talking about today would make it too prevalent in her mind. Out of all the things that she’s seen in war, this is the worst. The camps are what she wishes she could unsee. She won’t allow herself to think about them. Not until she has to. Maybe not ever.

And tomorrow? Will they go back? Someone has to sort through the bodies, through the buildings, through the dirt. The images of what they discovered today will never leave her mind. And whatever they see tomorrow . . .

If the stoney expressions on her friends in the living room are anything to go by, it will only renew their determination to end the war.

It’s Luz who tells her.

“Happy fuckin’ birthday to Tommy!” Arms spread wide, he enters the room with a grin – not a smile as wide as the ones he once had before Bastogne, but it’s a smile, nonetheless.

He’s wrong, but at least he remembered – kind of. “You’re a day early, Luz.”

He claps Zenie on the back with – somewhat – good cheer. When no one else in the room responds, Luz finally elaborates. “Hitler is dead.”

“Thank God,” someone sighs.

The news perks everyone up. Hitler, dead? Does this mean . . . ?

No. The war does not miraculously sputter to a close, anti-climactic, or at its most dramatic moment, depending on how you look at it. But Luz has more good news.

“Nixon says that we’re moving out in an hour.”

A collective noise that’s not quite a cheer and not exactly a groan ripples through the small group. Easy Company is on the move, again. At least they’re not stagnant, waiting around in foxholes. But God knows where they’re going now – and what they will see when they get there.  

Picturesque mountains.

On the way there, at least. Fields framed by snowcapped peaks in the background. All beautiful sights that seem incongruous with their final destination: the home of the Nazi party. Who seem determined to stop them from barging into their territory.

“This war has more sitting around than I thought it would,” Zenie realizes aloud. Piles of rubble and rock are blocking their path up the mountain to Berchtesgaden. Amid the stopped vehicles, people have jumped down and are congregating like it’s the time of fellowship during church. Except instead of shaking hands, hugging, and telling everyone it’s good to see them, they’re all speculating about if they will ever actually see the top of this trail.

“At least we’re not in foxholes this time, though,” Popeye chirps.

Shifty squints up at the sky. It’s clear, the perfect blue. “Warm, too. For early May.” Then he smiles. “Good birthday weather, Tommy.”

The same giddiness that came over her back in Bastogne returns at the realization that Shifty remembered her birthday. They’re not back in the States for the beginnings of spring, but they’ve got a nice view. And if they could ever get up this mountain, the sprawling landscape promises to be even more beautiful.

“Better than what Earl had.” Lightly, Zenie elbows her friend in the ribs. Four days earlier, it had been overcast and there was a chill in the air. Today though, the bright weather promises to lead to something exceptional.

McClung shrugs. “Yeah, well, you’re welcome, Tommy. I used my birthday wish to get you this nice weather. You can thank me later.”

“Gosh, Earl. That sure was sweet of you. How could I ever repay you?”

Earl shakes his head, brushing it off. “Shoot, kid, it was nothing. Don’t mention it. From the kindness of my heart, and all that.”

When the road is finally cleared, the four of them opt to race up the steep trail with some of the others instead of riding the trucks. After all those runs up Currahee, it’s nothing. No one would ever admit it for fear of Sobel finding out, but stretching their legs like this again feels nice, and completing the run fills them with a sense of accomplishment. Back in Toccoa, it would have been impossible to imagine reaching the top of the mountain – or any mountain, for that matter – and laughing in good cheer about it, shoving each other and joking around, but now, after all they’ve been through, something about it just feels natural.

“Did you let me win?” Earl laughs when they finish.

Zenie shrugs. “Oh, kindness of my heart, and everything.” She laughs when Earl delivers a friendly shove to her shoulder.

“Smart ass.”

An organized sort of chaos quickly descends over Berchtesgaden. Its former residents left behind their finest clothes, jewels, and heirlooms – much of which can be seen in the arms of Captain Speirs as he hauls them away to wherever he hides them, building up a collection of shiny goods, like a magpie. Alcohol begins to flow so freely and in seemingly unlimited supplies that one could almost think about a glass of wine and have it manifest in their hand. Fancy rooms in lavish, towering buildings are opened up for their use, and are quickly claimed by people who feel it’s their right to sleep so comfortably after all those months of holes in the ground. The only thing there seems to be a lack of is rules. Or, more accurately, rules that are actively enforced.

“Sobel would hate this,” Zenie notes as a car comes flying down the street they’re on. Their small band jumps out of the way as Talbert flies past, laughing and honking the horn as he goes. If their infamous former captain were here, they would probably all be more tempted to cut loose than they currently are. The collection of souvenirs would cease or would become a sort of black market.

Luckily for Zenie, many of the fancy goods that draw her eye go largely unnoticed by the men. Most of them are too busy with guns and art to notice the silky dresses in the closets, or the bangles in the drawers.

On their first day, her friends begin sifting through a suite in one of the hotels, rummaging around for art and trinkets. Zenie lingers in the doorway, watching the scene. Invaders, she had heard Bull call them. Not for the first time in a few days, they’re barging into homes. Now, though, they’re taking souvenirs, intentionally leaving things out of place. We’re here to stay, the actions announce.

Babe throws open the curtains, allowing the large room to fill with sunlight that pours in from the spring day on the other side of the window. Illuminated, something on the vanity in the corner glints, catching Zenie’s eye.

A golden tube of lipstick rests on top of the smooth wood. Upon further inspection, it’s only half closed, like its owner left it behind in haste. The tube feels cool to the touch and smooth between Zenie’s fingers. It slides fully open easily to reveal a deep, royal red. Rich. The color of money. Zenie should know; this is similar to the color that she’s seen Beckie wear on her rare trips home.

Actually, Zenie herself once wore this color. Years ago – a lifetime ago, now – to a Christmas party. The Christmas party. What was she? Fifteen? Sixteen? It doesn’t matter now. She had borrowed Marilyn’s lipstick, coating her lips in it in the hopes that she would be leaving a stain in this color on Elijah Woodard’s cheek by the end of the night.

Silly, stupid to think about now. Those were once her biggest concerns: Beckie, Elijah, lipstick, what people thought of her, if she was as pretty as her older sister. Her new world has bigger problems than teenage drama.

The tube snaps firmly shut when Zenie replaces the cap. She places it back as it was, but it holds her gaze, engaging her in an intense staring contest.

A gentle hand on her elbow draws her back into the room. Shifty stands beside her, looking between her and the lipstick.

“Just say you’re sendin’ it back home to your sister,” he suggests in a whisper, as if he can feel the desire to pocket the makeup.

Invading homes, taking things – it all seemed so wrong when it first started. But somehow, here she is, standing in the homes of the very people who dragged innocent people from their homes, shaved their heads, forced them into camps. These people didn’t have the decency to feel bad about the things they’ve inflicted on innocents.

It plays back in her mind, this new image of Shifty that she hasn’t yet allowed herself to fully consider. The Shifty she saw back in the camp, who a man approached and knelt in front of, holding a sickly man in his arms, begging for help. Shifty, who said in his gentlest voice, “I’m sorry,” over and over again, because he knew there was nothing to be done for the man, but he couldn’t just leave him there alone. Yet another memory from Germany that will never leave her.

Any guilt she may have had regarding the owner of the lipstick melts away in an instant. They took far more from people than Zenie taking this tube could ever compare to. She places it in her pocket and joins the others in their search, pocketing a pair of earrings for Mama as well.

Between the collecting, the partying, the hunting, the hiking, the overall fun that they’re having, almost a month flies by with ease. With the lax rules and newfound opportunities for privacy, Zenie joins Shifty in the woods when he goes hunting, reveling in the shelter that allows them to speak freely, the opportunity to be herself for a bit.

With all the new space available to them, no one complains any longer about Tommy’s private habits, like his tendency to disappear whenever changing clothes is required. At night, Zenie can remove the bandages from her chest and enjoy deep, full breaths while she sleeps. Gene says that her ribs look the better for it, but all Zenie knows is that she hadn’t realized how badly she missed being able to sleep comfortably and without the fear of being discovered. And she’s starting to think that she could carry on like this forever.

Until a new word becomes an everyday part of their vocabulary.

Points.

[bindi-the-skunk]

New fic idea

Sleep evaded Nemo

Now this was far from a rare occurrence, as both the captain's past and just insomnia in general often caused rest to be a bit difficult to find some nights.

Throwing the covers aside, Nemo got to his feet, grunting a bit as the feeling of unrest seemed to intensify in him, something was not as it should be.

With all the quietness of a stalking cat, Nemo checked in on all those he knew would be sleeping, the members of his crew who worked the day shift all slept peacefully, the captain hoping they all were having enjoyable dreams that would follow them when awake.

Sawyer did not even budge from his sleep, not even when his door betrayed Nemo with a groan, how had that gone unfixed? Irritating, but all their youngest did was offer a contented hum and snuggle deeper into the sheets, completely unbothered and affording Nemo a long-lost pleasantry, even if the agent was far older than his children had been, and more experienced in the world than many would give him credit.

Skinner, as predicted, was a bit more of an…interesting sleeper, talking random nonsense in his sleep, mouth unable to stop working even in dreams, but also unbothered by being looked in on, only giving Nemo the amusing mental image of a talking banana with glasses, the eye cover he wore as he slept being the only indicator of where he was in the lump of sheets and blankets.

Jekyll also proved an interesting sleeper, his blankets and pillows had been shoved to one half of the bed, his left arm and leg lost under the pile, well his other limbs had thrown themselves over it in a rather odd bear-hug and mild snores signaled that he also was undisturbed.

Nemo did not bother with any attempt at silence when he approached Ms. Harker's room, knocking on the door, a soft voice gave him permission to come in, which he did, Mina's unique condition meant she did not require the sleep that a regular person did, so snoring or other signs of deep sleep would have been what raised an alarm.

"Sleep evading you, captain? Should I bring out the chess set? I was just finishing up with my project" Mina offered kindly, setting down some papers on her desk.

"No, thank you, I am going to keep on with my current project, I was just making sure nothing was amiss"

"Well, I am fine, I do hope you can get some rest tonight, I hear we will be stopping at a nearby island for supplies tomorrow, I'm sure someone will see fit to drag you along shopping" Mina chuckled a bit though Nemo seemed to have missed the joke.

Both Sawyer and Jekyll seemed to take great stock in dragging Nemo along with them for shore trips, and well the doctor usually took a bit more of a careful step in finding something that their captain might also enjoy, such as a play or rare book, young Thomas seemed more interested in just making sure the stubborn Indian tortoise was pulled out of his shell as much as he could stand before biting.

Suppose he could not blame them, Jekyll used to be an active member of high society, and would be used to attending parties and ostentatious operas en-masse, Sawyer also was a social man, openly flirting with young ladies and talking to recent aquantences like he had known them for years, opposed to Nemo's more isolated nature that held very few close, and those that he did were prized more than any rare pearl or overflowing shipwreck he might come across on his travels.

Mina was of course quiet and always open to a chess game, she also enjoyed shopping, as most people did, and was never short on a possible escort, with several men proving a desire to have her approval or have an afternoon on the town with a woman of her great beauty on their arm.

Nemo himself was of course, not blind to her lovliness, but he held no more of an inclination towards it than he might a nice painting upon the wall, beautiful to lay eyes on, but not something you touched.

"Yes, of course, I should not be long before I return to my quarters, have a good night" Nemo said before turning and leaving to continue on his quest, wondering all the while what his instincts seemed to be pulling him towards.

[crypticfandomtrash]

Theoretical Alphabet Apprentices Part 2

K's real name is Karekin Darchinyan. He is Armenian and was born in the capital city. He speaks Armenian, English, Georgian, Russian, and Arabic. He is also studying Ancient Greek and Latin. His birthday is October 18, 1986.

He is 5'11 and three quarters. He has pale skin, brown hair, and blue eyes. He is fairly slim, but he can fight well.

His parents died in a bombing when he was 14. He took shelter in a church for a few weeks before being found by Wammy, who was visiting Armenia at the time. He loves history and weaponry and researches old battles. He is decent at almost every subject.

He remains in the Successor Program, but he knows he isn't likely to be chosen as L's main apprentice. He wants to become a historian or a history teacher. As of pre-timeskip Death Note, he is 17-18.

O's real name is Odette Lacroix. She is French and was born in Marseilles. She speaks French, English, and Italian. She is also learning Japanese. Her birthday is April 11, 1990.

She is 5'6 in height. She has blonde hair and blue eyes. Her favorite clothes are cute dresses and she loves accessories.

Her parents died in a car crash when she was 2. She survived and was raised by an aunt until she was 12. She was placed in foster care because her aunt remarried and the husband didn't want her around. Wammy heard of her plight from a contact and had her flown to England. She is energetic and cheerful. She makes friends easily and often gives other kids advice. She quit the program to study various things geared around helping others.

She is very compassionate and empathetic. She is Catholic and prays for the wellbeing of others. Since she doesn't remember much about her parents, she isn't as negatively affected by their deaths as she could have been. As of pre-timeskip Death Note, she is 13-14.

P's real name is Ploumisti Chloros. She is Greek and was born in a seaside town. She speaks Greek and English. She is studying French. Her birthday is June 25, 1988.

She is 5'10 in height. She has brown hair with a goldish tint and amber eyes. She is athletic and doesn't let people mess with her.

Her parents gave up custody because they were extremely poor. No other relatives could take her. She was brought to Wammy's when she was 5. Her name means "ornament" and she is considered a great beauty. She is able to get almost whatever what she wants because she is very charming. She quit the program because she wants to be a model or a fashion designer.

She encourages others to feel beautiful and positive about themselves. While she can be manipulative, she does not like to hurt others or their feelings. As of pre-timeskip Death Note, she is 15-16.

Q's real name is Qiaoluan Feng. She is Chinese and was born in Shanghai. She speaks Chinese, Japanese, and English. Her birthday is January 7, 1988.

She is 5'5. She has sleek black hair and dark brown eyes. She is slender and pretty, though she doesn't brag.

Her parents were protesters who were executed by the government when she was 11. A contact of Wammy's saw her in state care and notified him. She was secretly taken to England. She is sly and quick witted. She is skilled at making disguises and hacking computers and is often found hanging out with Matt. She also enjoys tea ceremonies and other traditional things.

She hasn't quit the program and hopes that her skills will be useful to L and whoever becomes his main apprentice. She hopes to become either a white hat hacker or a software developer. As of pre-timeskip Death Note, she is 15-16.

R's real name is Reshmi Kaur. She is Indian and was born in the Punjab region. She speaks Hindi, Punjabi, and English. Her birthday is March 12, 1987.

She is 5'2 and a half in height. She has very long black hair and brown eyes. She does not cut her hair because she is a Sikh and they don't do that unless there is an emergency.

Her parents died from the same illness when she was 9 and her relatives refused to take her in. After two foster homes, she was flown to Wammy's when she was 13. She is friendly and has a good sense of humor. She quit the Successor Program to study medicine. She wants to be a doctor and is extremely diligent.

She often tends to her friends' scraps and bruises. Whenever she finds an injured animal, she will try to nurse it back to health. She enjoys dancing. As of pre-timeskip Death Note, she is 16-17.

[pratigyakrishnaki]

Of Queens and Lions

She smiled, grinning from ear to ear as her stomach dropped and she experienced the weightlessness that came from her fighter jet executing the steepest of dives towards the lake. She fell further and further, the smile on her face growing wider and wider.

“Squadron leader Rathod, pull out of the dive NOW.” She ignored the command from Ground Control. Just a little further.

The water hurtled closer; still she did not pull up.

“Queenie! You’ll crash!” That was Lucky, her fellow teammate.

She ignored him too. There would be hell to pay for the ignorance, but this rush; she relished in it.

She was feet from the water, mere inches, before she grabbed the joystick and pulled. Hard. The jet righted itself, sending sprays of water flying while her jet’s belly kissed the edge of the lake. She let loose a loud whoop before she heard in her ear, “Squadron Leader Rathod. Ground yourself immediately and report for questioning.” 

Dammit. Sher had found her. She sighed and turned away from the lake, returning to base. Some people, would never understand the rush of flight, speed and the skies, but she, Rani Rathod, was born to live in the sky. 

-

If only some people understood that, she thought grimly as she extricated herself from her helmet and flying gear. Captain Sher Singhania, didn’t seem like someone who did. But that couldn’t be true, otherwise how would someone so young become the captain of their team so quickly? Sher’s name was infamous in their academy. He came from a flying legacy. His father and his father’s father had been generals in the Indian Air Force, and Sher seemed on the trajectory to do the same. But he was only 28. A young, mere 28. 

As Rani walked to the captain’s quarters, she remembered the first time she had met Sher. Excited to be working with him, she had seemed so eager, so quick to shake his hand. But Sher seemed to hate her from the get go.  As she stood there, her hand outstretched, he just stared at her and then turned away, greeting all the other members of the Garud Squad. She had turned red, her ears burning as she stared for just a moment longer before turning away from the man.

A/N: It's been a long while. Two years since I've been here. A lot has happened. Loss, love, and a lot more. I'm getting married in a few months, and he's helping me regain my love for writing. Maybe we'll see more of Rani, maybe not. I sure hope so though. She's become a part of me quickly.

Anyways, hope you all are well. Come say hello!

[dwellordream]

Notable American Women: BARTON, Clara (Dec. 25, 1821 - Apr. 12, 1912)

“...Named Clarissa Harlowe, after the heroine of Richardson’s novel, she preferred to be known simply as Clara. She was deeply influenced by her family. Her father, to whom she was especially close, was a veteran of the Indian wars and a substantial farmer and sawmill owner who inspired his daughter with patriotism, a love of military lore, and a broad humanitarian interest.

From her mother, a practical, hot-tempered, and warm-hearted woman, she acquired a lifelong interest in the household arts. Her four considerably older brothers and sisters also played important parts in her education, guiding her in mathematics, literature, and out-of-doors activities, including horsemanship. “I had no playmates but in effect six fathers and mothers,” she later wrote.

…Plain in feature, almost neurotically sensitive, and endowed with an abundance of nervous energy, she early evidenced a strong will, a determination to surmount obstacles, and a capacity to identify herself with needy sufferers. At eighteen, little more than five feet tall, she began to teach in neighboring schools, her early success giving her increasing self-confidence and poise. Her patience, integrity, sense of fun, and ability to inspire won the life-long devotion of many of her pupils.

…In the confused days that marked the beginning of the Civil War, Clara Barton found an opportunity to aid and befriend homesick Massachusetts soldiers in the capital. Later, witnessing the almost total lack of first-aid facilities at the battle of Bull Run, she advertised in the Worcester (Mass.) Spy for provisions for the wounded. 

Using her own limited quarters as a storeroom, she accumulated bandages, medicines, and food. Despite initial opposition in the War Department and among field surgeons, she and a few friends began in the summer of 1862 to distribute these supplies by mule team to ill-equipped hospitals and camps and on the battlefields themselves.

…Insistent on keeping her operations independent of the United States Sanitary Commission and of Dorothea Dix’s division of female nurses, Clara Barton short-circuited military routine and again and again appeared at military engagements with desperately needed supplies. Adaptable and cooperative, she was able to commandeer army mules and wagons for transport. It was her genius to blend sympathy with efficiency and never-failing resourcefulness. 

…Increasingly she won the respect and admiration of commanding officer and surgeons, one of whom wrote, after seeing her in action at a critical juncture, that “if heaven ever sent out a holy angel, she must be one, her assistance was so timely”. She always insisted that she was only one of hundreds of women who had rendered such service, yet by thousands of soldiers she was remembered as the Angel of the Battlefield. 

…Undismayed by governmental and public apathy, she initiated what was to prove a five-year campaign for the organization of an American Red Cross Society and the adherence of her country to the Geneva Treaty. …Spending increasing periods of time in Washington (her permanent home after 1884), she worked indefatigably, though often in a mood of profound discouragement, to persuade the State Department, the White House, and Congress to ratify the treaty. 

…Finally, on Mar. 1, 1882, with the approval of the Secretary of State James G. Blaine and the Senate Committee on Foreign Relations, President Arthur signed the Geneva Treaty. Two weeks later the Senate ratified it. Both at home and abroad, it was generally agreed that American adherence could not have been effected had it not been for Clara Barton’s persistent campaign.

…Aware of the tendency of some philanthropic organizations to remain in operation longer than the situation warranted, she made a point of leaving when the main work was done. Although she cooperated with local relief groups and with government agencies when these were involved, she insisted on keeping tight rein over whatever was done. Her program consisted of getting as speedily as possible to the scene of the emergency with relief--food, clothing, medicine, materials for shelter. Anticipating a later emphasis, she was concerned with rehabilitation as well as with relief.

…But there was serious criticism, both from within the organization and from outside, of Miss Barton’s management. Many felt that her place was at her desk in Washington rather in the field preparing soup for soldiers or establishing orphan asylums for Cuban waifs. So ill-defined were relations between the national Red Cross organization and its nominal auxiliaries that much of the useful red Cross war work, particularly in the training of nurses, was wholly independent of the national office.

…She could not delegate authority. Any criticism of her informal method of handling finances, which was without benefit of acceptable bookkeeping or audits, seemed to her to impugn her integrity. The truth was that she clung to power when it was clear to all but her most devoted supporters that new methods and new leadership were required. 

…Whatever her failings, the honors were unquestionably merited. In a public career spanning over forty years, she had not only performed outstanding humanitarian services at home and abroad, but, above all, she had made the emblem and meaning of the Red Cross familiar to her countrymen.”

- Notable American Women, Volume I: A-F, 1971

[jofletch]

[CIS WOMAN  and SHE/HER] Welcome to Aurora Bay, [JOSELLE ‘JO’ FLETCHER  ]! I couldn’t help but notice you look an awful lot like [SUKI WATERHOUSE]. You must be the [30] year old [OWNER OF DRIFTWOOD COFFEE SHOP]. Word is you’re [GOAL ORIENTED] but can also be a bit [STAND OFFISH] and your favorite song is [KILL BILL by SZA]. I also heard you’ll be staying in [SEABROOK QUARTER]. I’m sure you’ll love it!

@aurorabayaesthetic​

Hello there friends, I’m Mads this is my little baby Jo, she’s a new charrie to me so bare with me in figuring her out. I’m working on a bio currently but in the meantime here is a quick little head cannon then some random tid-bits! I’m looking forward to plotting with you all :)

Headcannon:

-Jo grew up here in Aurora Bay

-She is most known for the little scandal that she got caught up in in High School, she was seeing an older guy when we was a senior (18) he was 25 and if you know all too well by Taylor Swift then you know where this is going.. 

-Basically she got screwed over, she was so innocent and gave her all to him yet that wasn’t enough. Just so happens he had a wife on the next town over.

-So she skipped town and went to  NYC stayed there and did a little toxic stint where she experiemented with everything and anything then fell in love with this rockstart whom (you guessed it) did not have good intentions.

-After that Jo came back home and opened up the driftwood something she can put her time and effort into, and here we are.

-She’s pretty much sworn off men and women alike because she���s just not about the heartbreak however she can’t resist a good time.

GENERAL INFORMATION.

Full Name: Joselle Renee Fletcher

Nicknames: Jo, Jojo, Josie,

Age: Thirty

Date of Birth: November 4, 1994

Place of Birth: Cape May, NJ

Zodiac: Scorpio

Gender: Cis Woman

Nationality :American

Religion: Agnostic

Orientation: Bisexual

Relationship Status: Single

PHYSICAL ATTRIBUTES.

face claim: Suki Waterhouse

height 5'0

weight 125 LBS

hair color: Dirty Blonde

eye color: Green

tattoos: Angel wings (right index finger )  

dominant hand: Right

distinguishing marks : none

outfit/clothing : artsy,boho, street casual

hometown: Aurora Bay

current residence : Seabrook Quarter

spoken languages English.

financial status:  Middle Class

education level Graduated from High School, (did online grad classes never finished them though)

occupation: Owner of Driftwood Coffee Shop

hobbies: traveling, film, going to art exhibits, being creative,  getting tattoos, being a foodie, creating new experiences.

BACKGROUND INFORMATION

FAMILIAL INFORMATION.

mother: Renee Fletcher,

father : Luke Fletcher

siblings (OPEN FOR CONNECTIONS)

cousins (OPEN FOR CONNECTION)

children: none (that he knows of as of currently- Ivy Amor’s baby is his lol)

PERSONALITY.

positive traits:  determined, humble, daring, cultured, realist

negative traits: non-commital, dissmissive, self-sabotaging, contradictory

likes: the smell of a good perfume/cologne,  mint gum, astrology,  fireplaces, tennis, stargazing

dislikes:  busses, being too hot,

EXTRAS.

FAVORITES

TV Show: Parks and Rec

Movie: Step Brothers

Book: 1984

Color: Seafoam

Flower: Orchid

Scent: (vanilla musk)

Food: Indian Food/  A Good Burger

Alcoholic Drink: Chardonnay

Music Artist(s)/Band(s):  Greta Van Fleet, The Black Keys, The Neighborhood

Song: You're The one- Greta Van Fleet

WANTED CONNECTIONS

best friend

childhood friends

drinking buddies

neighbour

exes

new fling

protective friends

cousin

enemies

work friends

roommate

his new muse

tinder hookup?/ sneaky link/ fwb kinda thing?

literally anything <3

[dear-indies]

Hi, Cat. Hope you're having a good night. If you don't mind, could you please help me find a fc for a fairy tale based muse? She's a former servant for a wealthy noble family who later becomes a princess after she breaks the spell the prince is under. She's easily scared at first, but finds her determination and bravery. Race and ethnicity don't matter. I don't have an age decided yet, but anywhere from 21 to 29 should be fine. My first thought was Maris Racal, but I'm having a little trouble finding Bisaya first names, so I thought I'd look at other options. Thanks so much!

Hey, anon! If you're looking for names and culture guides I'd suggest looking over the following by the amazing @minjeongwinters:

quick cheat sheet for bisaya words

volume one: surnames from indigenous philippine languages

so you want to write a filipino muse: a basic guide, from an actual filipino.

But as for more suggestions, most of which have period-style resources, I think Maris would be a great suggestion though!

Stephanie Levi-John (1989) Afro-Carribean.

Sophia Nomvete (1990) Black South African / Iranian.

Adelaide Kane (1990) - is bisexual.

Aiysha Hart (1990) Saudi Arabian and English.

Kiran Sonia Sawar (1991) Pakistani.

Michaela Jaé Rodriguez (1991) African-American / African-American and Puerto Rican - is trans.

Naomi Scott (1993) Gujarati Indian / English.

Hande Erçel (1993) Turkish.

Kim Adis (1993) Bisaya Filipino.

Olivia Cooke (1993)

Zoë Robins (1993) Nigerian, possibly other.

Rose Williams (1994)

Moses Ingram (1994) African-American.

Simone Ashley (1995) Tamil Indian.

Geraldine Viswanathan (1995) Tamil Indian / Swiss-German.

Amy James-Kelly (1995)

Xu Jia Qi (1995) Chinese.

Meng Zi Yi (1995) Chinese.

Katherine McNamara (1995)

Anya Chalotra (1996) Kashmiri Indian / English.

Anya Taylor-Joy (1996)

Ruby Barker (1996) Montserratian and Irish.

Amita Suman (1997) Bhojpuri Nepalese.

Charithra Chandran (1997) Tamil Indian.

Annabelle Davis (1997) - has spondyloepiphyseal dysplasia congenita.

Lana Condor (1997) Vietnamese.

Morgan Holmstrom (1997) Metis of Cree descent, Ilocano Filipino, and Sambal Filipino.

Nicole Maines (1997) - is trans.

Gabbi Garcia (1998) Tagalog Filipino.

Daisy Edgar-Jones (1998)

Joey King (1999) English, other / one quarter Italian, three quarters Ashkenazi Jewish.