#typical albion

[im-an-anthusiast]

Like Moth to a Flame

The sun glared down at Albion maliciously. Almost as if it knew what he was about to do, he thought. He dismissed the thought – and the heat – by shaking his head, locks of his ginger red hair sticky against his sweat-stained face. It didn’t help much with either of the issues. However, both were overshadowed near immediately as he came upon a familiar sight. A shed of deep brown wood – wood which showed its age. Its wear and tear would let Albion know how incredibly old it is, even if he hadn’t known it for as long as he knew his very parents. He walked towards it, and he could hear his heart thumping in his throat, flushing out the sound of the shed and the little foliage around it creaking and rustling in the wind. Approaching the shed, he reckoned he’d be called a “bad girl” if he got caught. However, the gnawing of anxiety had nothing on the rush of excitement flowing through his veins and buzzing at his fingertips. It almost flooded out the pain from the bruises and cigarette burns. Almost. He resumed his walk toward the shed, dragging his feet, enamoured by the sheer taboo of what he was doing. 

His eyes flicked to the padlock keeping the chained door shut as soon as he could get a good look at it. His breath hitched with anticipation and subsequently sped up with sheer glee. They really did forget. The key, caked with rust, was sticking out of the padlock – which hung on the chain keeping the door shut. A painfully large smile spread across Albion’s face. He immediately fumbled to reach the padlock. It didn’t take him long to realise that even on tiptoes, his 14-year-old body couldn’t reach even one of the chain links. He quickly whipped his head around to look for a solution, and immediately, he was struck by genius. He ran over to the nearest dead bush, and snapped off a sizable branch, hoping to use the piece of dead wood to somehow drag the chain down so that he could reach the padlock. Albion swallowed hard and started poking, jabbing, and tugging at the chain with his new favourite stick. Well, it will be his new favourite if it manages to help him out. 

To Albion’s dismay, the chain was far heavier than he had expected. It took all the strength in his stick-thin arms to make the chain budge even an inch. Pain was creeping up his feet and calves from tiptoeing at the edge of the shed, right by that damn decrepit door. Perspiration and heat caused sweat to cascade down his body and face, tasting salty on his lips. A slight gust of air lifted the hems of his oversized trench coat, lifting it off the ground, on which it was dragging on until now. And, as the gust blew, it rushed into some of the holes in the barely-not-rotting door, a good amount of dust and dirt getting in. As it did, air blasted out from some of the other openings in the door. And Albion, standing in front of one of them, was expecting the stalest air his young self has ever had the discomfort of getting to smell and taste to fill his lungs. The air rushed out, forcing itself up his nostrils. The biting, metallic smell almost went unnoticed due to the sensation accompanying it. As he inhaled, Albion felt energy course through his entire body, from the roots of his hair to the soles of his feet. It was unlike anything he felt before, with all his senses stimulated – even those he wasn’t aware he had. He wasn’t sure how long he stood still, but he was suddenly tethered back to reality as the awful smell finally hit him. The utterly pungent smell of iron – or something else that Albion didn’t want to consider – was clouding his mind. It was disgusting, to the point he almost wanted to retch. But at the same time, he felt enamoured. Like a moth to a flame, he couldn’t tear himself away. But the door was still in his way.  

As he resumed his efforts, the stick still in his hand, he found himself wielding an unexpected strength. He also realised that he had been swallowing the air flowing from the shed in greedy gulps, its sweet taste buzzing inside his mouth. He felt as though he could rip the door down. So, he tried. He slid each of his scarred little hands between the doors and gripped them tightly with his fingers. The wood splintered. And Albion started to deflate, assuming nothing happened – before realising that, wait, he splintered the wood with his bare hands? While the wood was rotten and decrepit, Albion was sure that couldn’t have been it. The wood was laughably easy to splinter – Albion had struggled more with snapping the stick he had been holding until a while ago off the bush. Albion stared at his hands as he stretched his fingers, then clenched his fist – not feeling anything out of the ordinary. He reluctantly – and almost cautiously – placed his hands back on the splintered inside of the doors and pulled. And as he did, wood snapped off the door, staying in Albion’s tight, squeezing grasp, the intensity of which almost caused it to splinter further. He was aware of splinters digging into his skin, but he hardly felt it – and cared even less due to the sudden rush of what he was doing, and the pleasantly uncomfortable energy burning and boiling in his veins. As the wood snapped off, however, more air flowed out of the shed, enveloping him in its sickly sweet, attractive aroma. 

What happened next was a bit of a blur to him. He knew he had continued tearing apart the door – entranced by the scent. He also knew that he had managed to rip a large hole into the door – large enough to pass through. It all felt hazy and hard to think about, being at the back of his mind as he stepped through the hole. The sweetly disgusting and disgustingly sweet smell flooded him and filled his nostrils fully. His head started spinning, and he swayed, just barely catching himself on an oddly sticky wooden table. The inside of the shed was incredibly dark, even despite the hole in the wall. Albion stood still, propping himself up on the table at the side of the cramped wooden interior. It took him a while to get used to the overwhelming smell and the reaction it invoked in him. About as long as it took for his eyes to get used to the darkness. The wood was not like it was from the outside. It may have been just as old and putrid, but the colour was off, somehow. It’s hard to tell in the dark, but it seems as though the wood was of a harsher, redder brown. His eyes continuing their journey across the inside of the shed, he noticed metal chains hanging off the ceiling, with hooks on their final, rusted links. And the little light that did enter the shed made them gleam with a crimson shine. Albion tried not to think about that too hard – he was usually pretty good at that. He averted his eyes from the hooks, and his gaze snapped to the table he was leaning on. On it was a bloodied human arm, from the hand to the shoulder, lying inches away from his own. Albion threw up. 

Shaking, on hands and knees, he kept gagging and retching. The floor was slick with the once-contents of his stomach. He regretted this. Sweet though it may be, he was choking on forbidden fruit. He wanted to have fun exploring where he knew he wasn’t allowed, but instead, his head was spinning, and he could feel just how empty his stomach was. As if in response, the smell hit him again. He knew what it was this time. And yet, he couldn’t resist dragging himself up as the energy jolted his body. The smell was emanating from every blood-soaked inch of the wood. It made him want to rip the wood out of the walls and floors, to lick and suck all the blood out of it. But more powerful than that was the pull towards the arm. It lacked any skin. Slick and red, it enticingly rested on the table with blood pooling around it. The meaty flesh was mouth-watering. He lunged towards the arm and bit into it, his teeth sinking into its flesh, and he tore at the meat, swallowing large chunks greedily. Intense nausea caused him to gag numerous times, but the visceral hunger overtaking him was so overpowering that Albion didn’t even realise that he was on all fours again – ripping into the arm with his teeth and jerking his head as to tear off a chunk of that intoxicatingly sweet meat. 

The flesh and blood flowed down his throat, causing now-familiar energy to spark within him. All his senses were overwhelmed, and a searing heat started rising from his belly, through his chest, and spreading upwards. The contents of his throat and mouth got flooded out by scorching hot, flaming bile. Pure, liquid fire flowed from his mouth, setting the wooden floor below him aflame. Horrible, white-hot pain shot through his entire torso and neck, fire dragging itself down his tongue. Albion’s blue-green eyes rolled back from sheer agony, as heat scraped his insides on its way out of him. He can only watch as the wooden floor below him is burnt through, the contents of his throat and mouth searing the ground below them. A mantra of pleadings – please please PLEASE STOP – is the only thing Albion can think through how clouded his mind has become. And as he does, the flames immediately cease. The heat moves back to his chest. It is still endlessly painful – like a large, flaming stake being driven through his chest – however, a stake feels like bliss compared to the very Sun forcing its way up his throat. His cheeks were slick with tears, and his eyelids felt heavy. Albion was sure that closing his eyes for just a second couldn’t possibly do any harm. He did so.  

He dreamt of hands and lit cigarettes, of belts and blood. Heat started flourishing in his chest, and he quickly realised that that pain wasn’t the same as the pain in his dream, the pain that he was used to. He woke with a gasp, a sudden breath drawing sharply through his rugged throat. His chest felt like it was on fire. He bit his lip, trying not to cry again. Reaching towards the table, he did his best to ignore how slick and sticky it was. But as his fingers wrapped around it, the wood suddenly ignited, flames spreading across it far too quickly. Albion could only watch in terror as the fire jumped across the shed, crawling on the floor and climbing the walls, blood and meat sizzling under and in the flames. Swallowing hard – despite how painful it was – he felt himself overcome by the urge to feast again. Despite the fire raging around him, he was mesmerised. However, the sound of shouting voices snapped him out of it. The words were slightly hard to make out through the roaring and crackling of flames, but he could make out some “What has she done”s and “Oh God”s. His breathing became erratic. He was neck-deep in trouble. Both the inferno raging around him and the one burning in his chest suddenly felt small and irrelevant. A figure walked through flames, into the burning shed, and despite Albion’s struggles and attempt at resistance, he was grabbed by the wrist and dragged out. He could hear talking and felt that his wrist was going to be left with a sprain, but he could hardly focus on that. He was in so much trouble. 

He watched vacantly as the shed burnt brightly, like a beacon in the cold night. The sky was painted with beautiful blues and purples, and clouds of stars decorated it. Any attempts to save the shed or its contents proved pointless. He hoped they would take longer trying. Just a little longer, running around and wasting time. His wish wasn’t fulfilled though. As they neared, their eyes were focused on him – and filled with anger. A tight grip suddenly seized his hair, and he winced in dread and anticipation. But then, a painful heat welled up in his chest again – threatening to spill out of him, and he smiled. Just a little. 

[literaryvein-reblogs]

Hi :)) do you have any advice on writing stories about Celtic mythology? Ive been trying to use Wikipedia to learn more about it but I find the format of it isn’t very digestible for me and I end up not understanding it well

Writing Notes: Celtic Mythology

The ancient Celtic pantheon consisted of over 400 gods and goddesses who represented everything from rivers to warfare.

With perhaps the exception of Lugh, the Celtic gods were not universally worshipped across Iron Age Europe but were very often limited to only several regions or a specific area.

Another difficulty in examining the Celtic pantheon is the paucity of written records produced by the Celts themselves; quite often a god (deivos/deiva) is named in only a single surviving inscription.

To further complicate our lack of knowledge, the Celts often gave all-embracing powers and attributes to their gods which means that they can rarely be easily categorised.

Celtic votive inscriptions from the Roman period often name a Celtic god with a Roman equivalent noted alongside, a practice known as the interpretatio romana. The following are a few major deities or those with multiple or significant inscriptions.

Andarta - a Celtic goddess whose name may derive from the Celtic word for the bear animal.

Borvo (also Bormo) - a god whose name likely derives from the Celtic word meaning 'to boil' and so indicates his frequent association with natural hot springs.

The Dagda - an Irish-Celtic god whose name is usually preceded by the definite article. His name likely means 'the good god', probably in the sense of being 'many-skilled'. His common attributes are a great club, which can both kill and bring the dead back to life, and a giant cauldron that can produce an inexhaustible quantity of food, especially porridge.

Danu (also Dana) - a Celtic mother-goddess who gives her name, which means 'stream' or 'the waters of heaven' to various places and the River Danube.

Genii Cucullati - mysterious Celtic divinities which are not given a name but appear in groups or alone and wear hooded cloaks in art. Depictions typically have them near a single better-known god and holding either an egg or a scroll.

Nemetona - a goddess whose name derives from the Celtic term for a sacred grove of trees (nemeton). Votive inscriptions naming the goddess survive from both England and Germany, some of which indicate she is the partner of Mars. The goddess had temples dedicated to her at Klein-Winternheim and Trier, both in eastern Germany.

Suleviae - this is a group of Celtic sister goddesses who were venerated in Britain, Germany, and Rome (where there were many Celtic mercenaries). The trio was most likely seen as protective figures and associated with regeneration.

Read the full list here. More Celtic mythology concepts and themes:

Albion - Ancient Celts referred to Britain—not including Ireland—as Albion and only later as Britannia. The Romans connected Albion through their word albus, meaning “white,” with the white cliffs of Dover. Geoffrey of Monmouth reported that the Celts believed a certain Albion who ruled the island was a giant fathered by a god of the sea. Others believe the island was named for a princess who came to the island with fifty women who in their former home had killed their husbands.

Belenus - Also known in Celtic Ireland and Britain by various names—Bel, Belinos, Beli, Bile—Belenus is a god of Celtic Gaul whom Julius Caesar compared to the Greco-Roman Apollo as a solar god of light and reason. He carries a solar disk on the chariot that he presumably uses to travel daily across the sky. His British name is the source for Billingsgate in London. Fires in honor of the god were lit for Celtic festivals of Beltaine (“Bel’s Fires”) on May 1.

Cernunnos - A horned Celtic god of Gaul (modern France) and parts of the British Isles, Cernunnos was a god offertility, like the Italian goddess *Ceres. He carries a club and is lord of the animals. Perhaps because of his association with planting and seeds, he was associated with the underworld. The Romans linked him to Mercury, who led souls to the underworld, and to Apollo, as he provided light for the dead in their graves. Sometimes he is equated with Dispater and the Irish Dagda.

Decapitation - An important theme in Celtic mythology in general and Irish and Welsh mythology in particular. The story of Bricriu’s Feast is a decapitation myth, as is the Welsh story of Bran. The theme influenced the Arthurian myths and the medieval English romances such as Sir Gawain and the Green Knight. Earlier decapitation stories are found in the Bible—including the tales of David and Goliath, Judith and Holofernes, and Salome and John the Baptist. There is also decapitation in the Greek myth of Perseus and Medusa, and in the Mesopotamian myth of Gilgamesh and Humbaba. The decapitation theme—especially when associated with a “green man” such as Gawain’s Green Knight, the Aztec Corn King, or many Native North American Corn Mothers—may well have its roots in sacrificial rituals of fertility. Heads that have been cut away from the body, as in the case of Bran’s head, continue to function and talk in Celtic mythology, suggesting a belief in the head’s being the seat of the soul as well as of power and fertility.

Dis Pater - In the Gaulish, that is, continental Celtic mythology, Dis Pater was the Roman name provided by Julius Caesar for a god claimed by the Gauls as their father god, or ultimate progenitor. The name given by Caesar suggests that the Romans saw a connection between this deity and the otherworld or underworld. As, literally, “underworld father,” Dis Pater is naturally associated in Caesar’s mind with the Roman Pluto. The Irish cognates would probably be the Dagda, the father god of the Tuatha De Danaan, and Donn, the god of the dead.

Druids - The priestly class in early Celtic societies, especially continental Celts. They were judges and seers with great moral authority, who ranked above all other classes. As such, they were the equivalent of their Indo-European brothers, the Indian brahmans. The Romans in Gaul developed myths about the druids such as the one suggesting that they practiced human ‘sacrifice. The Irish filidh may be said to have somewhat diminished druidic standing. The great Celtic bards Taliesen and Amairgen had druidic qualities and authority.

Epona - It was primarily the continental Celts who revered Epona, the horse goddess. She was naturally adopted as a favorite by the Roman cavalry and was celebrated at an annual Roman festival. Epona has certain earth goddess aspects, such as her strong association with fertility, sexuality, and water. In Welsh mythology, Epona appears to have had a cognate in the fertility-warrior goddess Rhiannon, who rode about Wales on a white horse dispensing gifts, in the traditional great goddess manner, from her bag or womb bundle.

Irish mythology

Lugus - His name, referring to brightness, indicates that the continental Celtic god Lugus, whom Julius Caesar equated with the Roman Mercury, was a cognate of the Irish Lugh and the Welsh Lleu. Lugus was a god of the arts.

Maponos - Son of the continental Celtic mother goddess Matrona, has a Welsh cognate in Mabon, as Matrona has one in Modron. Maponos was the divine child— the puer aeternus—of Celtic mythology.

Matrona - In the continental Celtic tradition, Matrona, whose counterpart in Welsh mythology was Modron, was the mother goddess whose son was the divine child Maponos (Welsh Mabon).

Nehalenia - A Germanic and possibly continental Celtic sea goddess who protected voyagers.

Taranis - (Taranus) was compared by Julius Caesar to the Roman god Jupiter. Taranis was the thunder and storm god of the continental Celts of Gaul. He was an aspect of the typically Indo-European triad of Esus, Taranis, and Teutates.

Arthurian Mythology

Annwn - (Caer Feddwid) is a name for the Welsh Otherworld, where a magic cauldron exists. In a medieval Arthurian tale, Preiddeu Annwn (The Spoils of Annwn), Arthur and his knights go to Annwn to obtain the cauldron, which, as indicated by the possession of the Cauldron of Plenty by the Dagda, the father god of the Irish Tuatha De Danaan, was a symbol of sacred kingship. Arthur and the few of his men that remained return empty-handed. The tale is seen as a prototype for the story of the Holy Grail.

Camelot - The castle and primary dwelling place of King Arthur, the seat of the fellowship known as the Round Table. It was at Camelot that the Holy Grail appeared to the knights of the Round Table. Many places in England to this day claim to be the site of the legendary castle. Camelot was first mentioned by Chretien de Troyes in his twelfth-century work Lancelot. Supposedly Camelot was destroyed after Arthur’s death. During the early stylish and optimistic years of the American presidency of John F. Kennedy, it became customary to speak of Kennedy and his followers in the White House, and of the administration as a whole, as “Camelot.”

Chretien de Troyes - A French poet of the 12th century C.E., Chretien wrote metrical romances about the ‘Welsh-British ‘hero ‘King Arthur and his knights of the ‘Round Table. Most famously, he wrote Perceval or the Story of the Grail, about ‘Percival (Parsifal) and the ‘quest for the ‘Holy Grail; and Lancelot, or the Knight of the Cart.

Fisher King - In the Arthurian story, the Fisher King is a somewhat ambiguous figure who is encountered in various conflicting versions by hero-knights of the Round Table— particularly Percival—during the quest for the Holy Grail. The King is in some sense wounded, a fact that affects the fertility of the land he rules. Some say that the King—Pelles, Parian, or Pellam—was guardian of the Grail but that he had sinned and was thus unable to speak when the Grail appeared before him. The King can be cured of his wounds or his speechlessness only when certain questions are asked of him. But when Sir Percival comes to the Fisher King’s castle and the Grail passes by him in procession, he fails to ask any questions about it, and the King remains under the terrible spell.

Galahad - Originally Gwalchafed in Welsh, Sir Galahad was a knight of King Arthur’s Round Table in medieval Arthurian sagas. His story had strong heroic mono- mythic elements. Galahad was the son of Sir Lancelot and the Lady Elaine, whom Lancelot had been tricked by a potion into thinking was his beloved Guinevere. Galahad was brought up by a nun and then knighted by his father and taken to Arthur’s court. He was, above all, pure, and it was this quality that made it possible for him, of all knights, to succeed in the quest for the Holy Grail. Galahad appears in Arthurian lore in a thirteenth-century French cycle of romances. La queste del saint graal (“The Quest for the Holy Grail”). In Sir Thomas Malory’s Le morte d’Arthur, Galahad achieves apotheosis; he is taken up to Heaven.

Guinevere - In the Arthurian romances, including those of Chretien de Troyes, the Welsh historian Geoffrey of Monmouth, and Sir Thomas Malory, Guinevere (Welsh Gwenhwyfar) is the wife of King Arthur and the beloved of Sir Lancelot. There are conflicting tales of Guinevere’s origins. Some traditions hold that she was the daughter of Leodegan, who gave the Round Table to Arthur when the latter married his daughter. Her love for Lancelot led to the disruption of Camelot and the fellowship of the knights of the Round Table, and eventually to Arthur’s death. Some say she married Mordred after Arthur’s death. More often it is said that she retired to a nunnery.

Holy Grail - or Sangreale in Old French, was an important quest object in the Arthurian tradition, particularly connected with Percival, as in the Perceval of Chretien de Troyes (c. 1185) and the slightly later Parfval of Wolfram von Eschenbach. Whatever the original source of the legends of the Grail, Christianity associated it with one of the vessels used by Jesus at the Last Supper.

King Arthur - Legendary British king who appears in a cycle of medieval romances (known as the Matter of Britain) as the sovereign of a knightly fellowship of the Round Table. It is not certain how these legends originated or whether the figure of Arthur was based on a historical person. The legend possibly originated either in Wales or in those parts of northern Britain inhabited by Brythonic-speaking Celts.

Lancelot - The son of King Ban of Benwick or Brittany, Sir Lancelot, or Lancelot of the Lake—so called because he was raised by Vivienne, the mysterious Lady of the Lake, who stole him at birth—was one of the noblest knights of King Arthur’s Round Table. But his love affair with Arthur’s queen, Guinevere, would lead to the downfall of Camelot and the fellowship of knights. Sir Galahad was Lancelot’s son by the Lady Elaine, who tricked him into thinking she was Guinevere and so made love with him. Galahad would succeed in the quest for the Holy Grail where his father had failed. Lancelot rescued Guinevere when she was about to be burned at the stake for adultery. When Guinevere and Lancelot fled to Brittany, Arthur followed them and his illegitimate son or nephew, Mordred, usurped his throne. This led to a war in which both Mordred and Arthur were killed. When Guinevere retired to a nunnery, Lancelot, too, took religious vows. The Lancelot story is found in the works of Chretien de Troyes and Sir Thomas Malory.

Mabinogion - The “Welsh Mabinogion is found in two fourteenth-century manuscripts, the White Book of Rhydderch and the Red Book of Hergest. The collection, based on oral narratives, probably took literary form between the mid-eleventh to the early twelfth centuries.

Malory - Sir Thomas Malory is the fifteenth-century English author of Le Morte d’Arthur, an important compilation of Arthurian material. He is said to have created his great prose work while in prison.

Merlin - Probably has an antecedent in the legendary Scottish and/or Irish mad prophet Myrddin (Merddin). The Welsh historian Geoffrey of Monmouth, in his twelfth-century History of the Kings of Britain, established Merlin’s position as the motivating wizard in the Arthurian legend. It was Merlin who helped arrange for the liaison between Uther and Igraine that would lead to the conception and birth of King Arthur. After Arthur’s birth Merlin took the child to one Hector, this in keeping with the monomythic heroic divine child’s being raised by a menial or commoner. It was Merlin who arranged for the ceremony through which Arthur would prove himself to be the king by removing a sword from a rock. There are many versions of Merlin’s life. It was said by some that he was conceived as a result of the union between a sleeping nun and a demon. In Sir Thomas Malory’s Le Morte d’Arthur, based on many earlier sources—many of them specifically about Merlin—the magician falls in love with an enchantress, Nimue (perhaps the Lady of the Lake), a femme fatale who imprisons him under a rock.

Welsh Mythology

Has come to us from various sources, all much more directly affected and distorted by time and non-Celtic elements than is the case in the much more isolated Ireland.

There are the two Latin texts especially concerned with the Arthurian legends—the early-ninth-century Historia Brittonum by Nennius and the twelfth-century Historia Regum Britanniae by Geoffrey of Monmouth—and there are, of course, oral sources, including, traditionally, poems questionably attributed to the semi-mythic sixth-century poet-prophet Taliesin, whose Irish equivalent was Amairgen, the poet-warrior.

But Welsh mythology, including the remnants of a pre-Christian Welsh pantheon, is more essentially contained in the “four branches” of a collection of eleven medieval tales known in modern times as the Mabinogion {Mabinogi) and in the various traditions associated with King Arthur.

Sources: 1 2 3 4 5 ⚜ More: References ⚜ Writing Resources PDFs

Hi, consuming a lot of media on the topic would be important for your story. These are just a few excerpts from the sources I was able to find, which you can go through in the links above (+ the other references the authors mentioned). Find the right balance between your research and the direction you want your own story to go. Hope this helps with your writing!

[justaz]

Mages are drawn to royalty to serve in their court. Balinor was drawn to Uther and Nimueh was drawn to Ygraine. The power level of the mage typically corelates with how remarkable/powerful the royals will/could be.

Whispers were sent around Albion at the Pendragon royals having a Dragonlord and a High Priestess at their sides. Turns out the remarkability of them came upon Albion as the persecution and oppression and slaughtering of all mages and magical creatures.

Emrys is drawn to Arthur Pendragon.

When that gets out...

[midnightscramble]

Hiya, could you do a Portia Featherington x female baker reader. Of course you have all creative freedom. Thank you, love. ;P

Sugar, Sugar Part 1 (Portia Featherington x fem!Reader)

Part 1, Part 2, Part 3

The Masterlist

Author’s Note: Thanks for the request! Love this idea and am so joyed to write for it. If it’s not to your liking feel free to make another request (don’t be shy!). Happy readings to you.

Summary: The stress of running a doomed household is getting to Portia. In an effort to get her daughter and Mister Finch to produce an heir, she employees local baker Y/n to fill the house with goodies.

Warnings: Portia has anxiety, slight derogatory references to religion, memories of a neglectful marriage, period typical misinformation about pregnancy and fertility, No Beta read

“Mama, I swear, Albion and I have been trying. It is simply in God’s hands. A baby shall appear within my belly when he deems it so.” Philippa shrugged and looked towards the vaulted ceiling as if it was the heavens. Portia pinched the bridge of her nose at her daughter’s idiocy. She walked towards the window and looked out upon the street, shaking her head while cursing her daughter’s religious education. Of all the books Penelope had convinced the late Lord Featherington to supply her with, it had to be the Bible that Philippa happened upon. The very same girl who could not remember her Hail Marys.

Spinning on her heel, exasperated, Portia looked towards her daughter, “It is absolutely in your hands. God gave mankind free will. Free will which you will use to become pregnant. Are you sure that Mister Finch is doing his part, is he doing all a man can to enhance his virility?”

"There is only so much Alby can do, Mama. He has many allergies, it is near impossible for him to eat the foods that are meant to increase his bravado." Philippa yawned resignedly.

"Well, have you noticed any particular type of food that effects his, uhh," Portia raised her eyebrows and whispered conspiratorially, "appetite for you?" Philippa gasped despite her mother's careful phrasing, causing Portia to roll her eyes.

Offended, Philippa tsked, "Mama, that is very improper of you to ask. But if you must know, he rather enjoys sweets before the act."

Of course, Portia thought, when does the man not want sweets. "Then I shall have the staff fill your room with treats and you are not to leave until you are sure you are with child."

"You cannot trap us in our room!"

"I very well can! All of our futures are dependent on your and Mister Finch's coupling. I cannot count on Prudence to put her pride aside and measure up to the task. Penelope has not a suitor insight while she chases Mister Bridgerton's coattail. Please Philippa, if you do not do this we will lose everything." Her ears ran hot as she tried to reason with her. Was it possible that she was the only one who understood the enormity of the situation?

Slouching, Philippa huffed "Fine, although my only request is that the sweets not be from the kitchens. I'd rather it be from Y/l/n Pastries and Delights. The shop has gained quite the following with-"

"Yes, yes. I will take care of it, now off you go! I expect you to be glued to his side by the time I return with the order."

...

The carriage ride into town was bumpy and unpleasant. Perhaps Portia was overly sensitive due to her soured mood. She despised having to haggle, especially with someone as well connected as the Ton's premier baker. Since the death of Lord Featherington, Portia had been careful to reduce the size of the staff and have the kitchens purchase day old produce from the markets. While she preferred to be frugal in such times, this expense would prove to be important. Never did she think her family's future would rely on a man's appetite.

Coming to a halt, she peered out the carriage window. Her destination was at the edge of the Ton, surprising her considering the supposed popularity of the bakery. Gingerly stepping out of the carriage, she tried to settle herself. She knew exactly how to get what she wanted. Men, older men in particular, were simple creatures. With a delicate balance of sexual innuendo and pseudo helplessness, she was sure to emerge victorious.

The shop bell jingled, causing Y/n to look up from her place behind the counter. "Welcome in! what can I do for you, Lady Featherington?" She smiled brightly at the auburn haired woman. The aroma of the shop washed over Portia gently, reminding her briefly of the display of sweets she had at her own wedding.

Portia smiled tightly and approached the counter. To be known about the Ton was both a blessing and a curse. There was pride in being instantly recognized by strangers, yet it made discrete deals such as the one she was trying to procure all the more difficult.

"Hello, Dear. I was wondering if I may speak to the head chef?"

"I am the head chef." Portia released a guffaw, "Pardon me, I'm afraid you misunderstand, I am looking for the shop owner."

Y/n smiled kindly, Portia was not the first to make this mistake, "That would be me, Lady Featherington."

Portia's smile dropped momentarily. A woman shop owner was hard to come by. Sure, there were lady bakers in the Ton, but none owned the shops they worked in. "How modern," she complemented, "I was hoping it would not be too late in the day to place an order for tonight?" She was in fact hoping that it was too late, and thus the remaining goods would have a reduced price given how long they had been siting.

"As a matter of fact, I make night batches to supply to the local families. It seems everyone is partial to dessert before bed," Y/n jested slightly. Although her heart rate picked up a notch, Portia released a laugh to show good nature. Reevaluating the situation, she looked around the shop, "Well I'm not sure what I should order..."

Reading the hesitancy in her eyes, Y/n offered "Why don't I give you an assortment. That way you can come back tomorrow with a list of what was enjoyed, hmm?" She was used to having to sell herself to the people of the Ton, none were quick to trust a female shop owner.

Portia's smile relaxed at the prospect, "That would be lovely, thank you." Y/n started packing up one of each dessert. Absentmindedly, she made conversation, "My condolences on the late Lord Featherington. When my own husband died, it nearly sent me to ruin."

Eyes widening, Portia scrambled for an appropriate response to such an abrupt topic change, "Thank you..." She drifted off, not sure what to say. She studied the young woman, wondering what she was getting at. Their eyes met briefly and Portia looked away, feeling caught.

Filling the silence she continued, "My condolences as well, was it your husband who started this fine establishment?" Internally she grimaced. She knew it was none of her business, yet the oddity of the situation drove her to seek some sort of explanation.

"We started it together. I had to petition to the province to assume control of the estate. They wanted to give this shop to my eleven year old cousin, can you believe that?"

She sucked in a breath, "Yes, yes I can." Portia was becoming all too familiar with inheritance laws.

Y/n placed three full boxes on the counter and grabbed a paper. "Now, I am going to write which box contains which sweet," she beckoned Portia closer to watch as she wrote.

"This box has", rather than listen, Portia found herself distracted in watching Y/n's hands move as she emphatically described how each pastry could be identified. Her fingers twisted as she mimicked the pipped icing atop a miniature cake. The subtle flexing of her hand when she grasped the quill left Portia wondering what strength those hands possessed. Y/n seemed to have a good work ethic, leaving no doubt in her mind that she would be behind the scenes with her staff, kneading dough, working till sweat dripped down the column of her throat- Portia's mouth suddenly felt very dry and she cleared her throat, causing Y/n to pause. Embarrassed she rushed, "Thank you, I shall return tomorrow. You can hand these off to my footmen." She spun around on her heal and in three long strides she exited.

Y/n called after her, "Have a nice night, Lady Featherington!"

...

Feeling rather worn, Portia told Philippa's maid to have the sweets brought directly to her daughter's room. She retired early, settling in the king sized bed with the latest issue of Lady Whistledown. Seldom did she wish to know the true identity of the infamous writer. However, it was nights like these that she wanted to meet the woman face to face. She was curious, how had she made it so far? Was there a man behind the publishing? If it was truly a Lady behind the gossip expose, she may be the most independent woman of their time.

Oh, to be so free, she thought.

Turning, she blew out her bed side candle and tossed the pamphlet to the floor. Even with her husband dead, she was still chained to his decisions, his name, the failures he had made and hid from her. It would have scorned her if not for the fact that she had no emotion left to give the man.

She had never truly been dependent on him, at least not in the traditional sense. There were women like Violet Bridgerton, who mourned her husband years after his passing, pious and properly. For Violet had loved him, and in turn was dependent on his love and company. Portia, on the other hand, had tried to love her husband. She gave Lord Featherington her youthful devotion, drawn to his coy smiles and cold disregard for her. There was a certain safety in giving her heart and hand in marriage to a man who was distant. Who showed his affection in gifts rather than touch or word.

Their relationship, transactional at best, had entirely ceased upon the birth of Penelope. Lord Featherington had given up on the prospect of a male heir and moved to the opposing wing. From then on, the bulk of their interactions consisted of sitting across from each other at breakfast and linking arms at social events. Both were too content to break the newly developed pattern. It was almost pleasant, to look upon each other and feel no obligation to pretend.

Tonight was like any other night in her marriage, spent alone. She was normally untroubled by the empty side of her bed, cold and firm from being unoccupied. Closing her eyes she resigned herself to ignore the sudden deficiency. She told herself that it was of most importance to fall asleep quickly. Tomorrow she would have to be sharp to negotiate with Y/n.

Reminded briefly of the baker, thoughts of little cakes with pipped icing, quills, and the smell of bread paraded through her mind as she succumbed to sleep.

[hereghostslive]

comfort fan fic recs

tagged by @liminalmemories21

prompt: - what are your old school comfort fics? The ones from fandoms that haven't been active in yeeeaaars, but you've read so many times you can practically quote them.

very excited for this tag so i can gush about my favorite fics. some of these fandoms are definitely still active but i personally don't read them as much anymore.

Pointing at the moon series by shoulderbone (lavenderforluck) (Skam - post series - (Even/Isak)

Three stories detailing how Isak and Even come back together after a break-up. Like to think of them as long meditations on grief, reconciliation, and second chances. Isak and Even are written so well they feel like a perfect version of canon, just a few years in the future.

Graduate Vulcan for Fun and Profit by @lazulisong (Star Trek AOS - Gen)

Summary:

It really does take a village to raise a Jim.

The members of the Kelvin's crew watch over Jim as much as he lets them.

One of the most memorable fics I've ever read. I think about the funeral scene all the time. Jim's realization of what Sakel did is so satisfying. Plus, secret genius Jim and Tarsus IV are my kryptonite when it comes to Star Trek fic.

Retrograde by Pinkninja (The Old Guard - Joe/Nicky - Time Traveler's Wife AU)

Summary: Nicky's lives and deaths are different. He is unstuck from time - at every death he revives into a different point in his life. Each time he is struck down he wonders, will he awaken to deserts and swords? Will it be gunshots in cities? Joe and Nicky build a fractured life together, falling in love across two different sets of centuries, then patiently waiting for the other to fall in love too. He meets the rest of their little family out of order, but they still build a family around Nicky's involuntary time-traveling.

The amount of times I've read this is kinda wild. I don't even like The Time Traveler's Wife, but the concept works so well for immortal beings.

Men for all Seasons by new_kate (Merlin - Merlin/Arthur)

Summary: Reincarnation story set in 1940. In Albion's hour of need Arthur is brought back from his rest in Avalon. He learns that the world is at war, and that the enemies have dark magic at their disposal. With the help of the mysterious Vril society the invaders are about to gain air superiority and become unstoppable. Only Merlin could fight the new magical threat, but Merlin has been missing for a long time.

Cool take on the King that was Promised mythology, and immortal Merlin.

None the Wiser by @loftec (Shameless - Gallavich)

Summary: AU. Slow burn. The real time accounts of Ian visiting Mickey's dingy diner and slowly becoming his friend. Day 152 (167)

Talk about fics always on my mind. This is a WIP but there's so much of it there that it is possible to live in the world of Mickey's dingy diner and settle in for all the times Ian drops by and scoots his way into Mickey's life.

Your Name for a Capital by @the-prophet-lemonade (Shadowhunters - Alec/Magnus)

Summary: Magnus Bane meets a man from his future, interwoven throughout moments in his past.

More time travel angst! this one made me cry, even though, like, obviously they end up together. but Magnus's loneliness is so palpable here.

Malasadas for the Healing Soul by thoughtreflex (Hawaii Five-O - Gen)

Summary: The one where Danny has a secret, people discover this secret, Steve gets hurt, Danny gets hurt, Steve goes all ninja-possessive-SEAL, and Chin and Kono have to break out the BAMF routine to try and fix things. Not a typical Five-O month at all.

Actually just did a reread of this one. It's so good. The buildup of Danny's secret is one of my favorite parts of this story.

We Are Young (I'll Carry You Home Tonight) by @femmequixotic (Harry Potter - Harry/Draco - Political AU)

Summary: Harry and Draco have been falling into bed on and off again since the last election five years ago, much to the amusement--and financial gain--of their circle of friends. But when Harry agrees to work with Draco to put Kingsley Shacklebolt into the Minister's office, they can't work side-by-side again every day and sleep together; that would be courting disaster. Wouldn't it?

The dynamic between Draco and Harry in this one is so sharp. But what I like most about it how good of friends they actually are.

The Interaction series by ConstantCommentTea

Series Summary: Angel had thought that he'd done the Detached Misanthropic Vampire thing pretty well. He lived alone, his only "friends" were other vampires and demons, and his only enemy was Human Attachment. He saved if it was convenient for his conscience, and he went back to drinking human blood. His scowl was perfect.

After 200 years, he'd practically succeeded in fading away from humanity.

Practically.

This literally does not get enough love. A fully realized series that takes place 200 years in the future, full of OCs, but it's still Angel being the lone wolf who's heart slowly melts into caring about other people. and it's great. Bonus: The same author co-authors another series called Blood and Time, which is a Doctor Who/Angel crossover, that ALSO crosses over with their Interaction series ocassionally.

--

Those are all the major ones, I think. I do want to do a special shoutout to some series that no longer exist on ao3 or ff.net:

The Genesis-verse by beamirang - Star Trek AOS. i loved that series so much and am always thinking about it.

Methuselah's Children by wind-ryder (The Old Guard). also another one i read a lot.

--

Open tag for anyone that want's to play!

[kissme-withyour-cherrylipstick]

Alway Something Sings (167289 words) by InfernalNephilim Chapters: 27/27 Fandom: Merlin (TV) Rating: Explicit Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Merlin/Arthur Pendragon (Merlin), Gaius & Merlin (Merlin), Gwen & Merlin (Merlin), Gwen/Lancelot (Merlin), Kilgharrah & Merlin (Merlin), Morgana & Arthur Pendragon (Merlin), Knights of the Round Table & Merlin (Merlin), Aithusa & Merlin (Merlin), Hunith & Merlin (Merlin), Merlin & Will (Merlin) Characters: Merlin (Merlin), Arthur Pendragon (Merlin), Uther Pendragon (Merlin), Gaius (Merlin), Gwen (Merlin), Lancelot (Merlin), Kilgharrah (Merlin), Original Characters, Morgana (Merlin), Will (Merlin), Hunith (Merlin), Gwaine (Merlin), Aithusa (Merlin), Knights of the Round Table (Merlin) Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Arthur Pendragon Knows About Merlin's Magic (Merlin), Developing Relationship, Physician Merlin (Merlin), Dragonlord Merlin (Merlin), POV Merlin (Merlin), Tournaments, Quests, Canon-Typical Violence, Secret Relationship, Minor Injuries, Serious Injuries, Angst, Minor Character Death, The Old Religion (Merlin), Smut, Protective Arthur Pendragon (Merlin), Protective Merlin (Merlin), Action/Adventure, Realistic Blood, Happy Ending Series: Part 2 of The Last Dragonlord Summary: A sequel to Tra Bo Dau. After finally making it to Camelot and becoming Arthur’s manservant, Merlin is overwhelmed by, but excited for, his new life. While hiding his magic and his relationship with the prince, Merlin discovers Arthur has secrets of his own, a complicated family history, and a shared destiny to bring about the new age of Albion and return magic to the land. Meeting new friends along the way, Merlin does his best to guide Arthur into accepting him and other users of magic, all while upholding his sacred duty as the last dragonlord.

[girllookingoutwindow]

Philippa did sort of date Albion if you think about it. They fell in love, wanted to marry but her dowry was gone and so waited. I think they were together the entire time of their longer than typical engagement during the Regency era. They might not have seen each other often but for sure, there were letters.

I agree. I mean they love each other and I don't think Albion just let go of her so easy. It's possible that Portia aloud it, because she wanted that union, she was happy about it and supported.she hated her husband for what he did, and she was right. So, maybe that aloud them to know each other a little more.

But Prudence husband maybe he was in a catalogue? I don't know...

[balladofthewhitehorse]

#2 for engport please!

Thank you for the prompt <3 I wasn’t sure which prompt list you were referring to, so you get both!

[Set During The Peninsular War] + [Battle of Rolica] 

Portugal stood still, trembling in a brand of sunlight. ‘’Get out-’’ He started, abject fury curling in the back of his throat as he stepped towards France - jabbing his finger at them. ‘’Get out of my house.’’ Heart thudding in his chest, Portugal watched as the taller man regarded him with a cool look (like a fox in a henhouse; And the dog was away). ‘’Did you hear me, Fran-’’ 

‘’I heard.’’ A shrug, as if they had only been discussing the weather - Sunny with a chance of martyrdom, France mused quietly. ‘’Shame. I liked you.’’ Their eyes flashed as they slowly stood up and approached Portugal, arms folded behind their back as they cleared their throat, shrugging lazily. ‘’Spain’s troops are arriving anyday, Portugal. You’re welcome to join him.’’ A lofty smile, France raising their chin proudly. ‘’Brothers are a rare thing to come by.’’ 

‘’Why do you say that-?’’ Portugal retorted testily, hackles bristling. ‘’Is that a threat?’’ 

France almost looked disappointed, brows furrowing as they shook their head. ‘’Only cautioning you.’’ They paced the room - strides long and methodical, France’s expression pinched thoughtfully as a long silence stretched (Portugal dared not interrupt - somehow even the very quietness was envenomed). ‘’Your regent has gone already, hasn’t he?’’ It was a cowardly flight - France hovering on the port, nerves thrumming long after the ship had vanished; Coiled tight, expecting a fight that had ended up never happening.

‘’What a fool.’’ Anger dripped from their tongue, France glaring at Portugal suddenly - eyes boring into them. ‘’This is not what the Nation of Portugal is. This is not what you deserve, I can give-’’ 

‘’I will not accept it.’’ Portugal bit back, a lump rising in his throat (the people were angry, their restlessness only fanning his own - until Portugal could no longer tell what parts of him were them and what parts were him alone). ‘’Fuck you, I am more than just-’’ His face contorted, wild and defiant as he lunged for France - grasping the front of their embroidered shirt with balled fists, jerking France close with a venegful hiss. ‘’-My Crown!’’ Portugal bit his tongue, trembling in place (A heady rush of earth and sea - salt-kissed soil - who was he?) 

France regarded this with a lofty smile, peering over the bridge of their graceful nose. ‘’I assume you’re already aware of the consequences.’’ Something venomous crept into their voice, an adder in a lonesome field somewhere by the Seine - France releasing a frustrated huff as they shook their head. Typical, there was that familiar stubbornness (France had tasted its steel, as Spain tore a bloody hole in their flank) and they almost felt a laugh creep up their throat. ‘’For starters, I have your brother’s head pickling in a fucking wine barrel.’’ 

 “No, you fucking don’t.” He wrestled the urge to tackle France right then and there, as the taller country began to slowly walk away. Forget humans and their elaborate warfare, forget their swords and cannons and ships. Portugal wanted to tear into France, talons and teeth alike, a ferocious animal. 

“Why don’t you find out?” France sneered, casting him a malicious glance over their shoulder. “Or are you waiting for your…what’s his name again?” They scoffed, rolling their eyes loftily. “For Perfidious Albion to come running to your heel again?” 

“He’s-“ 

“He’s a dog, Portugal.” 

As France’s footsteps faded down the hallway, Portugal bit back a rising cry of outrage. He’s my Dog, Portugal wanted to hiss - to grab his sword and run France through right here and now, Napoleon be damned. Where anger rose, there was a pang of grief - Portugal suddenly subsumed in a wave of emotion as the weight began to sink in (an anchor around his throat, hands clawing at the briny rope). He had to fight France. For Spain, for England. 

Furious tears welled up in his eyes, Portugal nodding solemnly to himself. 

For Spain, For England. 

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Up, up and over the horizon - Portugal saw it, a ragged banner, blood-red and white. The face of St George was upon him, and Portugal waited patiently as a figure hovered at the prow of the ship, and did not wait before scrambling over its hull, tumbling into the stormy waters (some soldiers nearby had spotted a few of the British lose their lives as their landing craft tumbled in the water - but he knew England had eyes only for him). “About time.” He ground out as England emerged from the salt and foam, slick with brine and arms outstretched. 

“I can’t leave you alone for one second-“ England breathed out, grasping Portugal’s hands - his knuckles were red and raw, shaking as they cradled his lover’s palms (the imprint of a sword’s handle, a personal desire to kill France up close and personal, rather than the distant fury of a musket gun). “-without you hurting yourself, can I?” He growled, heart thudding in his chest - eyes troved Portugal’s body, searching for wounds or bruises, the tumbling of lost land or burned cities. 

“I’m fine.” Portugal replied stiffly, squeezing England’s hand. He knew they couldn’t waste time, jawline tense as he glanced towards his generals. “I mean, it’s okay-“ What burned in England, Portugal understood now to be something more intense than loyalty - something that could not be bought with gold or spice or the newest thing from afar, and as he watched England (his gaze ragged and worn, a man in a trance - the tireless duty of the Grim to its Church).

‘’Come on-’’ He cleared his throat, frowning solemnly. ‘’-We can’t waste any time.’’ ‘’No-!’’ England barked with frustration, staring at Portugal in a mix of disbelief and distress as the man turned on his heel - England trotting after him in a hurry, jaw set as he tried to resist grabbing Portugal by the shoulder. ‘’-No, it’s not okay!’’ A snarl rushed out of England’s throat, lips curling (red gums and white teeth bared, his shoulders bunched defensively). ‘’Not when I feel like I’m going to go batshit fucking crazy, thinking you’ve gotten yourself hurt or killed.’’ He squeezed his hand tightly around the muzzle of his musket gun and cleared his throat sagely. 

Now ruined from the saltwater, Portugal knew that it was ineffective - but not totally useless, given England’s tendency for melee warfare.

‘’Stop that!’’ Portugal snapped suddenly. He stomped his boot against the sandy earth. ‘’We’ve got France’s army breathing down our necks, and I haven’t got time to deal with you-’’ He faltered, England’s gaze heavy as he shook his head. ‘’-Come on, we’ve…we’ve got a long march ahead of us.’’ His brows twisted together in frustration, Portugal scarcely feeling England’s hand on his shoulder. ‘’Get off me.’’ England opened his mouth to say something - and thought better of it, eyes dark as he nodded stubbornly. Without another word, England skulked onward and Portugal fell in step beside him - the sun sweltering overhead as the two men marched in time with one another. 

Guilt clawed at Portugal’s belly, as he kept his gaze level with the horizon (the visible horizon has long been vital to survival and successful navigation, especially at sea - and although Portugal was not at sea, he hoped that it might give him luck; Both in the war and in personal affairs). ‘’...Thanks, for coming.’’ Portugal cleared his throat as he watched his countryside past him, a quiet dread cold and heavy in his chest. ‘’I wouldn’t have wanted to do this alone.’’ But, I would’ve. If you hadn’t turned up - went unsaid, a defensive flash in Portugal’s eyes. 

‘’Of course.’’ England replied numbly, nodding curtly. ‘’That is the rules of our alliance.’’ A flare of irritation blazed through Portugal, although his eyes betrayed nothing; England was right. Ties of blood and ink traced his veins as much as salt and earth did, and Portugal was at war with someone he had once called a brother. Spain was fighting back where he could, and Portugal felt himself weak for the loyalty and affection he still felt for him.

‘’Good-’’ A man called out towards him, Portugal’s gaze flickering off to the right as he squeezed the hilt of his sabre. ‘’-You know your role. I’ll see you after the battle.’’ The look England casted him was a wounding one, Portugal’s lips thinning with distaste as he tried to say something.

England was gone by then - disappearing with the rest of his men, a tightly-wound figure grasping at the hilt of his sword, at the muzzle of his rifle as England longed to strike something (to tear, to bite - to be a dog). ‘’...What are you looking at?’’ He grumbled softly, glancing at his neighbour with a weary, hallowed look in his eyes. ‘’Keep your eyes forward. The French aren’t gonna give you a warning before they blast your brain out.’’ England cleared his throat - before slowly reaching out a hand, gingerly patting the soldier’s back. It would be okay, the gesture said with each gentle thump. England wouldn’t fail.

He wouldn’t. 

Portugal had gone with Trant and his men towards the West - and each passing second was another noose for England’s throat, pulling tighter as he frowned. If France noticed him approaching - it would spell disaster, and quietly the man (pining - a dog left in the backyard, tied to a post and frustrated) moved slowly towards the front, shouldering his way through the crowded army. ‘’Sir-’’ He licked his lips nervously, staring up at Wellesley. ‘’Sir, can we-’’ Sensing the nation’s impatience, Wellesley nodded curtly - and gave the command. It was just a little after 9am, and England watched the horizon for Portugal. If France was…he shouldered through the foray, a snarl rising in his throat as he lifted the muzzle of his gun, a blast of gunpowder and smoke wreathing the air. With impatience, England rammed a fist into the gut of a soldier - curses thick on his tongue as he peered through the foray of dazzling uniform, eyes wild and furtive (the dog began to howl - baying for its master). 

‘’It’s me, you want-!’’ England shouted desperately, furiously as he slammed the butt of his rifle against the ground, knuckles white with terror. ‘’France-! Come to me! It’s me you want-!’’ It was the same as it had always been, the channel between the warring cliffs - an eye for an eye. 

There was a rush - clumsy and unplanned, England’s teeth grit with frustration as he cursed the foolhardy colonel (and yet, all the same, the man could not bring himself to entirely resent Lake; Did he not yearn for spilled blood? To spill himself into Portugal’s arms?) Shots rang out and men tumbled like stones, rattling down the steep hill-side as England found his feet leaden, dragged through the earth and the men and the blood that seeped through the grass. A familiar voice shot across the battlefield and he jerked forward ( and the Earth shifted with him). 

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Portugal wound himself against France’s body, blade to the nation’s throat as they writhed on the ground (He found himself wrestling with fate; Death gripping the front of his shirt as they slammed the butt of their musket against his nose, a sickly snap of cartilage). Dazed, he gave France a swift kick, thrusting his shin against their groin - a muffled curse of outrage as the other country released their hold, allowing Portugal to scramble to his feet. ‘’Fuck you-!’’ 

France didn’t say anything. A chilling silence amongst the scuffles and swears of soldiers, a figment of legend (Had Jeanne D’arc been this tight-lipped among the flames so long ago? It was hard to say - but France would carry her legacy on), as France lifted themselves from the ground and wiped their shirt, a streak of blood - Portugal’s blood - across their jacket. 

The look on their face was a patient one - a hungry one, la Bête du Gévaudan, as France held their sword before them. There was a flash of steel as they moved (Two roosters in the pit - a pair of spurs between them; France made the first move, sinking their sword into Portugal). Round and round they went, with quick swipes and strikes; A sword lost, a sword shattered as they grappled with one another. 

The men around them knew not to interrupt - knew not to intervene. Portugal bit back a curse as France slammed him against the ground, teeth cracking as they shoved their hands around his throat. There was a faint ringing in Portugal’s ears, a snarl bitten back as he felt France’s palm against the bob of his Adam’s Apple. ‘’Bastard.’’ He ground out wretchedly, jamming the remains of a broken sword against France’s breast - bruise purpling his throat. ‘’Portugal-!’’ England came charging through the crowd with teeth bared, dragging France off - enveloping them in his jaws, England burning with fury (Biting-! Biting down into the neck; A dog making off with the farmer’s prized rooster). He scarcely heard Portugal - calling after him - as they both tumbled, slick with earth and blood down the hill; France had dug a hand in his hair, and tugged while England’s teeth clenched against his throat with a growl.

 ‘’Get off-!’’ France shouted, England’s eyes watering as France jerked a boot into his belly, scrambling to their feet. They didn’t seem to take note of the teeth left in their throat, eyes narrowing as they bent to the wet grass; A discarded sword, one of somebody’s soldiers - whose side they had been fighting for was of no concern to France - and stared down their old enemy (old friend, old family, old neighbour). Without a word, they charged England and collided blade-first, crashing against one another like the choppy tides of the Strait.

Portugal cursed as he ran after England and France. They tumbled through the fray, wild and feral things (Squabbles of Man left behind; History bubbling through Portugal’s veins - forgotten grudges brought to the fore); Portugal, France and England wrestled with the weight of each other’s existence - and they crashed in weary, bloodied heaps. As France rolled away, slowly rising to their feet, Portugal rose too - and glared heavily at them, fists balled. 

France’s gaze flickered towards where his men were slowly drawing into a retreat. A bloody trail flowed down their throat, down their chest - down from their open palms, their face grim as they quietly stepped past Portugal, head held high (hair sticky with blood and earth, all too human for their liking). They fell in line with the rest of their men, and soon they were gone.

‘’...England-’’ Portugal cast his friend a furtive look, once France had slipped over the crest of the hill. Anger and relief thrummed through their veins, hot and heavy and all at once as he bit his tongue, fists trembling (adrenaline tumbled through them - the rush of the currents, pulling him hither and thither, sending him falling over and over). ‘’-What the fuck?’’ Shame plucked at his heart-strings, Portugal frowning solemnly. His friend was ragged and worn, bruises like sunsets, and still England stood before him patiently - expectantly. ‘’You bit France!?’’  ‘’Yes.’’ Came a robotic reply, England’s eyes wide and heavy as he began to croon. ‘’Portu-’’ Portugal held a hand up, shaking his head. ‘’England.’’ He couldn’t do it now, not in the middle of the battlefield; Not with the pair of them still in their soiled uniforms - wretched souls. ‘’You need a wash.’’ Fingers looped around England’s, laced together (Promise that you’ll use the finest soap - Promise that you’ll use the warmest towel - Promise that you’ll look after yourself) as they slowly began to lead the other out of the field, weary and dog-tired.

[ 2 ] - “will you marry me?”

‘’Will you marry me?’’ England’s eyebrows shot up as Portugal spoke, voice faint as it drifted from the sofa; An old thing, he had been meaning to get rid of the raggedy thing for a long time - and had simply never gotten around to it yet. ‘’W-wh…do we need to?’’ He replied, pursing his lips together as Portugal slowly got up (the shuffle of a cushion as it was kicked off onto the floor, and then carefully picked up and swung back down on the sofa). The spatula dandled in his hand for a heart-beat, England mulling over his question - just as Portugal appeared in the doorway.

‘’Do we need to?’’ Portugal replied sarcastically, smiling impishly.

‘’Are you serious?’’ 

England bristled defensively, sticking his tongue out as Portugal approached him; Arms looped around his middle, a red flush racing up the back of England’s neck as Portugal gently tugged him up - as if trying to lift him. ‘’I assumed we were already.’’ He grumbled softly, bumping Portugal with his hips as he gently lifted the spatula to his boyfriend’s lips - Does this taste good? - and smiled lightly; In the bright glare of the kitchen lights, England could follow the lines of his wrinkles and scars, rifts wrought by disaster and battle alike.

‘’You know, treaty of perpetual friendship.’’ He shrugged, looking back towards the pan. ‘’Seems fi-’’ Portugal scoffed, pinching England’s ear gently - leaning up on his tiptoes to press a gentle kiss to his neck. ‘’Friendship.’’ He pointed out, manner-of-factly. ‘’I want something official.’’ A gleam of pride shone in Portugal’s eyes (A sunken treasure - golden and desirable, England’s heart racing as he caught sight of it). ‘’And I have just done something amazing.’’ It had been a long time coming - but Portugal was caught up in the joy of his people. ‘’Before you too.’’ 

‘’I was wondering what got you in the mood all of a sudden-’’ ‘’Edmund-’’ Portugal breathed. ‘’-I just want to pretend we’re just humans for a bit.’’ England blinked at the use of his human name, guilt coiling inside him as he sighed. It was a cute idea - and how many times had they proven their devotion to one another, but by cutting one another into pieces? Portugal was right - and England slowly turned around, shifting so that he could tuck his boyfriend close to his chest, cradling his head in his hand with a oft sigh. ‘’Then yes, I would love to marry you.’’

It was hardly the most romantic way to go about a proposal - England mused wryly that they were both standing around in sweatpants and underwear in the bright glare of the kitchen’s halogen lights. ‘’Not going to start crying with joy?’’ Portugal teased lightly, snorting as he hugged England tightly. In the grand scheme of things, humans were fleeting - finite things in comparison, and Portugal knew that he could not always escape his duty; It thrummed beneath his skin, hungry and protective, the beating heart of his nation and Portugal knew that he would always yearn for his homeland in the end, for the rush of the tumbling sea beneath his feet. Yet, to be able to slake off that heavy burden - even for a brief moment, even for a short wedding, it was truly a precious thing. ‘’You wept the first time that I kissed you. I thought you were a wuss.’’

‘’That’s it, I’m breaking up-’’ 

Portugal let out a bark of laughter, tugging England’s shirt as he pulled the man close into a warm kiss (The forest rising to embrace the dawn; The Sun come again). ‘’Eu te amo.’’

[tttrashmouth]

something super interesting about merlin to me is that (whether directly or indirectly) they made a show about how conforming to societal views and expectations that are made for only a select few in society will eventually lead to everyone’s destruction. merlin spends the whole show refusing to tell anybody he has magic (besides mainly lancelot and gaius). typically, marginalized people conform to a societal standard to keep themselves safe (absolutely valid and reasonable thing to do), but at extreme points this can lead those marginalized people to indirectly start to advocate AGAINST their own well being in favor of keeping the peace and themselves safe and not actually dead. we see merlin do this same thing throughout the show, he constantly hides who he truly is and often speaks out against magic to keep it that way. that’s something i honestly understand, especially considering he lives in the heart of camelot as literally prince arthurs manservant. the only person who needs to be as guarded with their magic as he is, is morgana. to me, the interesting part is when merlin is given opportunities to bring magic into arthurs (and others) favor, he doesn’t.

and i am fully aware there is an aspect where merlin doesn’t want to see arthur hurt, but that loops exactly right back into the problem. rather than hurt arthur, merlin would rather hurt HIMSELF in the process of protecting arthur. any chance he’s given, he uses it to turn arthur away from magic. of course, you can’t discuss this without discussing the influence gaius has on this situation and how honestly, if gaius had not been telling merlin to keep his magic a secret and not tell anyone about anything, merlin would have told at least gwen by season one or two, even morgana maybe. but he doesn’t. because he’s constantly being convinced that he has to stick to what the norm is and try and conform. he has to let things happen when they’re supposed to, not try and force it himself.

so if merlin, who is destined to bring the golden age of albion with arthur, doesn’t do anything to try and push that goal forward than who is? of course it should never rest on his shoulders alone but he never actually takes steps to work towards a better future. and that’s it’s. that’s how oppression and violence wins, it convinces marginalized people that if they just sit and wait, in however many years change will come. finally they will have the freedom they’re looking for.

but it won’t happen, not unless they stand up for themselves. as sad as it is, those who oppress marginalized groups often benefit FROM the power they hold in the systems they’ve created and even in the fictional world they’ve created here, it’s no different. all of these sorcerers who live in camelot have been through so much pain and suffering that a lot of them have truly been convinced to dislike magic to a certain extent, even merlin. kilgharrah ACTIVELY turns merlin against morgana and mordred. i know it’s because they’re apparently going to be the doom or merlin and arthur respectively, but damn he doesn’t even give them a fighting chance. at least mordred knows about merlins magic, morgana doesn’t find out until the end of the entire show.

now i would like to clarify i am not bashing merlin or anything, he did what he could (mostly) with the hand that was dealt to him. even if it’s unintentional though, it’s interesting how this show truly shows how an oppressor will try (and often succeed) to show the oppressed that if they just sit and wait and let themselves be brutalized then their day will come, their freedom will arrive. but it won’t, not until they fight for it themselves. the entire show ends with so many of our main cast dead and those that aren’t are mourning the future that could have been. years of conforming and waiting for the day where magic would finally be free again we’re all for nothing because arthur DIES before any of it can actually happen. merlin practically fails because he’s been taught that it’s better to play it safe and stay alive then it is to actively fight for himself and others like him. and objectively, that’s not wrong and in a lot of cases can be the only option to take. but for merlin it’s leads to terrible consequences, one’s he never wanted to have to face.

[loregoddess]

sooo, because I don't have the Unicorn Overlord art book, I've been searching around to see if anyone's posted scans, or copied over character bio stuff, and found this list of ages, which is...hm! interesting. Mildly unsettling. Josef definitely has the "stress makes you go grey and then white real fast" gene or something, bc like, he's one of the oldest-looking characters (aside from Mordan who is? younger than Josef? what?) and yet he's only 52, which isn't as old as I was expecting him to be based on his design. Anywho, I arranged the characters into groups by age from youngest to oldest below, for viewing ease, so you can contemplate the ages too!

15: Yunifi

16: Chloe, Ridiel

17: Alain, Scarlett, Lex

18: Liza, Celeste

19: Travis, Auch, Nina (Millé is Nina's twin if I recall, so we can assume she's 19 as well), Melisandre, Umerus

20: Kitra, Tatiana, Leah, Gilbert, Govil

21: Sharon, Fran, Virginia

22: Ochlys, Primm, Dinah

23: Selvie, Miriam, Berengaria

24: Hilda, Gammel, Amalia

25: Monica, Aramis, Mandrin, Sanatio

26: Berenice, Adel, Gloucester, Raenys

27: Clive, Aubin, Rolf, Magellan

28: Bruno

29: Nigel

32: Fodoquia

33: Jeremy

34: Ramona

35: Morard

38: Bryce, Ilenia

40: Renault

41: Hodrick

42: Rosalinde, Eltolinde

43: Jerome

45: Colm

46: Bertrand, Gailey

47: Mordon

48: Ithilion

52: Josef

63: Railanor

82: Lhinalagos

85: Galadmir

88: Yahna

154: Alcina

Some interesting things here, it seems? that elves age at about 2.5x that of humans (if you divide any of the elves' ages by 2.5, and round to the nearest whole number, the "adjusted" age seems to match most of the characters as compared to the human characters of the same age, i.e. Rosalinde and Eltolinde would be 16.8 or roughly 17 in human years old which matches with Alain's age group fairly well).

But bestrals, despite the lore implying that owl bestrals live a long time and their shared ancestry with elves, don't...really seem to have spectacular age differences from humans, so perhaps something about the bestral anatomy puts them on an aging scale closer to that of humans.

Angels, unsurprisingly, seem to age at the same rate as humans, which makes sense given that they're just. Humans with wings. That most of them were childhood friends with Scarlett is wild though, there's an 8 year age difference between Scarlett and Sanatio and yet she was outrunning him on that bridge like it was no one's business (and yet Raenys was only a year older and serving as Scarlett's lady-in-waiting, I have so many questions about Albion).

Also I'm losing it at the implications that Ilenia had Alain when she was 19, girl what? Like okay, yeah sure, fantasy vaguely medieval setting, people had kids young, but 19? still seems so young...

Alcina though? Like, she looked that young in the prologue, before she teams up w/ local necromancer Baltro, so like? Did she cast an anti-aging spell on herself at some point? We know Yahna un-ages herself, and that this results in her looking young for the rest of her life, but did Alcina do the same spell? If so how did she manage to survive for...so long? Did Alcina somehow lengthen her own life with magic? From the rapports between Yahna and Rosalinde, we can assume that it's rare for even the most powerful of magic-users to live past a typical human lifespan (if Yahna's anything to go by, a healthy human in Fevrith can live well into their 80s, if not 90s, so we can guess healthy elves live about 200-225 years at their oldest). Alcina is an outlier, and her unhealthy obsession with Gerard does not explain anything about her weirdass aging, except maybe that she preserved herself as best she could so she could meet him again as he would remember her.

Anyhow local army is mostly not made of child soldiers which is, uh, nice compared to other srpgs, but the canon ages are...wild. Can't wait to get my hands on the heights and birthdates.

[fox-actually]

OC Obsessed! Whether they are mine or yours. But here is a lil' something on all of them! All characters based from Hogwarts Legacy are 18+. Taking a page from other creators to have a place where I can toss out HC's and lore I want to use in my writing.

Arianna Blackbriar: A pureblood Slytherin princess from the British Royal family and a witch. Bubbly, friendly, outgoing yet reserved in upper-class social settings. Bi-curious but prefes men, wants to be liked by everyone. Being forced by her family to be in an arranged marriage, but she is in love with her bodyguard. She wants to run away and do more with her life than family lineage. She loves fossils and sneaking out at night. Nicknames: Aria, Ari, Princess, Divine

Ashton Blackbriar: Separate AU from Aria and not related. A pureblood Slytherin prince from the Royal family and a wizard. Charismatic reserved, stoic, secretly wants everyone to like him. Bi, but prefers men in private, but with women in public due to his status and being forced into an arranged marriage. He wrestles being one way in public and another in private with the man he is in love with. He loves crystals and smoking weed. Nicknames: Ash, Handsome, Silverspoon(not in an endearing way)

Albion Hale: An orphan whose family was killed by werewolves around age 6. Covered in scars, he survived and found his way to Hogsmead, where the owner of Honeydukes adopted him. In a cruel twist of fate, he was turned into a werewolf, but his transformations were successfully and unknowingly suppressed by the mysterious professor. Carefree, easy-going, loves giving hugs, and almost always without a shirt. This Hufflepuff started Hogwarts in his 5th year and is a bit behind when it comes to his magical ability's, focusing on taking over his father's store and becoming a professional chef. He has found the love of his life and can't wait to spend the rest of his life with her. He took odd jobs as a bodyguard and is covered in tattoos. Nicknames: Al, poppa bear

Mason Bishop: 1 of 6 brothers and sisters, the youngest, this Gryffindor jock is nothing but a good time. Happy, cheeky, prank pulling, awesome Quidditch player, and overall sweet dork. Has mommy issues being the baby of the family. He will try and make anyone laugh, loves making new friends, and is over all a sweet guy and not your typical jock. New to love in all shapes and forms, his first real girlfriend is about to make him a man, already puppy sick in love with her; Mason will do anything to make her happy. He will try anything once and is a pretty good cook.

Tessa Davenport: A transfer from Australia, an Animagus, taking the form of a rare pink manta-ray. Sorted into Hufflepuff, she is a loud and feisty short woman. Super athletic, loves surfing, swimming, fire baton throwing/dancing. Her accent quickly caught the attention of her fellow classmates. With two older brothers, she grew up a tom-boy who doesn't mind getting her hands dirty but always cleans up nicely for events. Still getting used to her new surroundings, she has developed strong feelings for another transfer student, and he seems to return those affections.

The Professor-Darien Steele: This Gryffindor alumni has mysteriously returned the night Albion Hale was "bitten" by a werewolf. Experimenting on Al to suppress his transformations. Darien is master at potions, transfiguration, and deception. His only reason to return to Hogwarts is to research the rare power known as ancient magic, experiment on students with magic and alchemy. He has learned many secrets and keeps them in his back pocket for a rainy day of blackmail. He seems to be everywhere and gives off a charming eerie vibe. Every time you see him, he always physically looks a bit different or has become an entirely new person. Wonder why that is?

[youcantdateosmosisjones]

"You were a wonderful experience"

"You were... everything"

except I'm a complete liar and that's not even remotely them, but listen anyways

-

Spreaver, except it's Sparrow who's in the mindset of "it physically pains me to admit how much I'm intrigued and tempted by the idea of chasing desire, but considering how I've devoted my entire life to saving Albion- and now that I've got 2 kids and a kingdom to carry the responsibility of- I could never disregard the sacrifices I've made in the name of the greater good. Especially to someone like you. As Theresa has said to me countless times, my destiny is to become something for the people. That is my burden to carry, and something that I will live by indefinitely. Me and you both understand that weight, despite how we refuse to acknowledge that. We are both heros, after all- And we are the only ones left of our little quartet. I do take such comfort in the knowledge that I am human, and that I can't always be my image- That even you, as deplorable as you are, can, too, be human (as imperfect and needlessly complicated as they come). It is something that's become unfamiliar to me as of late. I never regretted whatever it was we had, despite how little it actually meant in the moment. Typically as just another way to deal with your presence without just killing you right then and there- but nonetheless gave me the same level of emotional release. We were both equals, and knew the others limits, I suppose. How far to push- what spots were sore- and just which buttons to press. We both knew the game, and we played- and it was the most mindless, yet instinctive thing I did for quite a few years. It was one of the few things that still made me feel as though I was living a life I could've had... But that will never happen. The only way I know how to make up for the countless lives lost since that fateful day, is to repay them with my own. I still can't shake the feeling of selfishness in my actions in acknowledging you. A Hero- and especially a Monarch- should not be one to indulge, after all. For that, I could never choose a life like yours- nor you. You were never meant to be apart of this; not for long."

And Reaver, who's currently like "You have been quite possibly one of the only conquests of mine that has made me feel alive in the past 200 or so years. There was always the knowledge with us that either one could end the other, which was a feeling I had not known from any other noticeable person (except Lucien, maybe). However, you still wouldn't actively turn your back on me whenever you had the chance. Why ever you did that, I found it of the utmost excitement. Whether it was your power; status; place in society; reputation; or some other grandiose factor that made you so alluring (as many other countless material items have been to me over my life), I still feel as though you were perhaps an equal to me. I'll admit how much potential I saw in utilizing that- I am an opportunist, after all- and yet I still didn't... why I let you become such an obstacle to me, I'll never know. I upped my typical antics in the hopes you'd take an issue with them- I did love our petty banter- but your refusal to respond beyond small petty gestures just made it more of a challenge. And even despite how you so unkindly usurped me, I still made an effort to prove that it meant nothing to me; that'd I was still as glorious as ever. I was Reaver; and no matter how much of a problem it posed to your kingdom, I'd still be right here; unscathed. You were an irritating- unpredictable- and such an unlikely source of such inconvenience to my plans. Perhaps that is why I was so prepared to see you fail... Perhaps that's why I still think of you from time to time, knowing that didn't happen. Not that I'll ever admit such a fact, knowing what you know about me. Still, in the wake of your passing, I feel as though it was all for nothing. That reoccurring thought, that all my countless endeavors somehow didn't make my sacrifices worth the life I gave up so much to live for, resurfaced, just then. I mean- if I couldn't even get back at you for having such an impact on me (my reputation, my empire, my house!! Need I even go on?), why did I ever spend that much effort on you in the first place? Why on earth I let you become something in my mind, I'll never forgive myself for. No... I'd never do that. I'll never forgive you. And for that crime, you will never be a name I bring up again; Stripped of any illusion of significance. In order to completely forget such troubling revelations, I've decided to once again indulge in the short-lived highs of excitement and exploits. In fact, I'll take advantage of this new era and make a name for myself- A proper one. The only way to drive those dreadful thoughts away is to prove them wrong, after all. Meaning: I'll build a new empire for myself. A far grander one. Perhaps, reaching the status you once possessed will finally erase you from such universal importance."

They're so toxic, they've started to rot my brain

I'm a 'petty, stubborn, shallow (masking his deep intellectualism and the torment) bitch' reaver x 'unbothered, "fuck it we ball" (deeply traumatized and not coping as well as they thought they were), throws chairs indiana jones style; sparrow' preacher

[unitedbydevils]

Match Review: Manchester United Women 7-0 West Bromwich Albion Women

Well, this was a fun one. Yours truly was a matchday photographer for his favourite team, taking on the visitors whom I usually photograph... what are the chances.

If you watched the match - or watch the replays: big grey coat, blue vis jacket behind the WBA goal both halves.

First, a little context: Manchester United are in the Women's Super League - the top division of women's football in England - and close to the top, chasing European football.

West Bromwich Albion are just shy of mid table in the FA Women's National League North; two divisions lower. A young side, their oldest players are their full backs at 28 and 29 respectively, which has led to a disjointed start to the season - including a major 8-0 league defeat to arch rivals Wolverhampton Wanderers at the men's stadium, The Hawthorns.

In recent weeks, WBA have started to bounce back and show both more mental fortitude and greater synergy, but even with that resurgence this was supposed to be a huge win for United regardless.

In a shock to nobody, West Brom took a very defensive stance away at the LSV - sitting deep in a low block and hoping to crowd United out and frustrate them. Typically the Albion play a 4-3-3 or even 5-2-3, but for the cup tie they lined up in a sensible 4-4-2.

[Writer's Note: FYI Google says they played 4-4-1-1 with Ali Miller on the left and Phoebe Warner behind Ellie May up top but it looked to me that Warner was on the left and Miller paired up top... who knows eh.]

The back four had captain Hannah George at LB and Ashlee Brown at RB - the two oldest players on the team at 29 and 28 respectively - and it was sensible of manager Siobhan Hodgetts-Still to stick with experienced heads against flair in Geyse and Galton. You don't want rash tackling and a dismissal.

The CB pairing of Izzy Green and Taylor Reynolds has been decent this season but they're young and have struggled for form when switching between a back 4 and back 5. For this game they were brave and alert and put in a big shift, but the little aspects of awareness around time to touch, to pass, to scan... the difference between a striker from Forest or Burnley in their league to WSL level talent was evident and it led to a lot of hurried passes and hoofed balls out of the box; safe in the immediate yes, but a strategy that just re-invited United over and over again rather than dealt with the threat posed in the WBA box.

For 22 minutes this strategy worked, but it was evident the entire time that United's technical and athletic superiority would eventually break the deadlock.

A quick burst of pace at the back post saw Melvine Malard meet a Geyse cross with a knee to score low past Baggies keeper Anna Miller, and right-back Ashlee Brown will be disappointed to have lost her mark. A careful replay though will show Malard's magic and her intelligence; she waits to dash until after Brown has looked and as her head is turning back to watch the cross... Malard goes for it. Class.

From here on out it was more of the same but to no avail: United continued to work the ball around the pitch from side to side but it was all too predictable, too slow, and allowed the Albion the time to shift positions and retain shape.

Part of the issue here was Terland in midfield rather than the CF position. United got away with it versus West Bromwich Albion purely based on fitness, but Terland didn't have an easy ride. Olivia Rabjohn (sister to Evie, ex Villa) is a dependable wide midfielder and composed under pressure, as well as being diligent in defence when called upon. Fran Orthodoxou is a Carrick-lite, stoking the ball around with strong vision, and Seren Watkins is a terrier in the CDM role - which Tooney and Galton found out. The result was that United could and did play well (eventually) down the flanks instead, utilising pace and fitness, but they didn't find it easy with Terland, Miyazawa, and Janssen to play through the middle, and Albion deserve credit for that resistance.

If a pleb like me can see the flaws in West Brom then so can Marc Skinner - for all my animosity - and he did make several changes late into the match to mix it up and cause WBA fresh problems.

The stubbornness of the Midlands team led the United manager to make all five permitted substitutions: Sandberg for George, Mannion for Riviere, Toone for Terland, Williams for Malard, and Bizet for Geyse. And would you believe it, fresh legs against a tired team from two tiers below worked a treat and we scored a boatload of goals. Tactical genius.

Sandberg and Mannion offered a lot more directness down the wings on the overlap than George or Riviere, and part of me wonders if that was disrespect from the players they replaced or instruction from Skinner not to overdo it with a double-header against City on Sunday in the WSL and the League Cup the Wednesday after.

It also might have been because of an actual midfielder driving at Albion in Toone being exactly what United needed, and that shock at having kept Terland quiet for so long opened the National League side up to a lot more attacking opportunities.

Williams would go on to bag a hat-trick as United scored six (6) in the last 30 minutes of play (including stoppage), with Celin Bizet bagging two and Tooney scoring a screamer to mark her return from injury - celebrated with the Kaka 'point to heaven' celebration in memory of her late father who passed away last year.

Shout out to Phallon too. I was surprised she was in net, given the lower opposition and a chance for Saf to play before Kayla gets in the mix in goal for us, but the clean sheet versus the Baggies makes it 10 in 13 now. Mad stat.

West Brom coped expertly versus Wolves in the Birmingham Challenge Cup recently, dragging them to penalties and winning to set up a semi-final with Aston Villa in the coming weeks, but a rival side aspiring to be in the Championship versus a team close to Europe... a gulf of difference. There's no shame in WBA playing ultra-defensive and still getting knocked around at Leigh Sports Village. The shame would have been if they had just given up and switched off.

Having seen West Bromwich Albion play a lot this season, they're not a bad side. They're just not a good one - yet. They have decent players, and enough technical ability to certainly be top half of the table. They're better than their league position. The issue for them is support from the club (they were finally absorbed into WBA properly this season) and being better funded so that players can commit more time to the game than working other jobs, which means more time on fitness and conditioning and training.

We'll talk more on the state of women's football another day, for now we look ahead. Next up for United are Citeh, on Sunday, at 6:45pm at the Etihad. United need a result there if we're to keep any hope of Europe alive, but I don't feel confident about getting one...

Update: Not satisfied with playing West Brom, we've now gone and drawn Wolves away in the Fifth Round of the cup. Banter.

[bunnywoodland]

I have a few Headcanons for Bunny (The First Descendant) (She's my favorite character).

(Also please keep in mind these are only my headcanons!)

=+×+=

=+×+=

1. Bunny can't move her legs (Don't fact-check my science or medical information, please. I'm just bullshitting here.)

You (literally no one) might be saying, "But Bunny's entire thing is that she runs fast!" And I get that, which is why I would like you to hear my reasoning:

After she found her Arche, Bunny had such little control over it that it ended up paralyzing her legs. Once she became a Descendant, Yujin and Jayber created Bunny's suit, with special machinery that allowed her to simulate the electric signals from her brain to her legs to help Bunny move her legs and run.

Bunny cannot always keep her arche active, however, and does have both a cane and a wheelchair for when she needs rest.

=+×+=

2. Bunny feels closer to Yujin than any other Descendant (tho she is friends with Valby and Blair)

He has seen Bunny at her lowest and hopes, now that Bunny is much more chipper and silly, to never have to see her again. He saw how much something could crush Bunny's spirit and will fight anyone and anything that makes her that miserable again.

=+×+=

3. Bunny sexuality & Gender

a. Bunny is bisexual (I just want her to like Gley women tbh.)

b. Bunny is trans (I'm projecting onto her tbh)

=+×+=

4. Bunny's weapons:

Albinism (Submachine Gun)

Description: "As a firearm specially ordered by Albion Headquarters for new recruits, considerable attention has been given to its design"

History: "The most favored prototype of a new weapon to be issued by Albion Headquarters."

Reason: This is the gun Bunny is seen with in most of her appearances in The First Descendant.

+×+

Voltia (Beam Rifle)

Description: "A firearm that incorporates the Electrical Current Discharge Technology used in Bunny's suit into a beam rifle. Since it discharges electrical energy rather than a normal light beam, it can also Electrocute nearby enemies."

History: "The results of the 24th attempt by the Albion Deslio Armory to create a combat beam rifle. The ABR-24 "Voltia" is a next-generation infantry firearm that incorporates the technology the used in Bunny's voltage-acceleration suit into a beam rifle."

"Unlike typical beam rifle, this weapon discharges high-powered electrical energy, and as it's name suggests, has a lot to do with with Bunny. Contrary to Deslin's joke that it was given Bunny's surname simply because it felt like holding and firing a Bunny, there are a lot of speculations amongst the armory's engineers that there must be quite a story behind it."

"According to the most plausible rumor, the source technology used to develop this firearm and Bunny's suit was secured thanks to the sacrifices of Bunny's parents, Cayden and Ember Voltia, and it is generally assumed that the firearm was given the official name "Voltia" to honor their achievements."

Reason: This rifle was made using the technology in Bunny's suit and named after her parents.

+×+

Tamer (Machine Gun)

Description: "A Vulgus Machine Gun that has been confiscated in large quantities from Vulgus captives."

History: "A weapon used to intimidate Vulgus captives during confrontations with them. It acquired this name since it was stolen from the Vulgus and used to threaten them."

Tame Beast (Weapon skin)

Description: "This Tamer weapon skin was rebuilt with Albion technology. This skin was created when the Tamer, a Vulgus Machine Gun, was finally rebuilt entirely using Albion technology."

Reason: Hehe big gun go brrrrrrrrt

Shortsword (Module)

[Quote only provides a description of the Module. It is unlike the other descriptions and I will not write it down for that fact alone.]

Reason: I think giving Bunny a weapon for if/when she gets in close is fun. Also involves another headcanon (see #8).

=+×+=

5. The Descendants have nicknames for Bunny

Viessa calls her "little rabbit". Yujin calls her "토끼" ("Tokki"). Valby calls her "Bun". Blair calls her "Storm cloud". Sharen, Kyle and Freyna calls her "Young Atlas". Luna calls her "B". Ajax calls her "Kiddo". Lepic and Esiemo calls her "Jumpy" (they take turns scaring her by jumping out from corners). Jayber calls her "Legs" (he gets a pass on jokes surrounding Bunny's legs not working since he contributed to making her suit and often finds himself repairing it). Enzo does not speak to Bunny. Hailey calls her "moving target" as a joke. Keelan just calls Bunny by her name

=+×+=

6. Bunny's eating habits

Bunny is shy about how much she needs to eat, as it is far more than a person her age. Due to the high speeds Bunny moves, she burns energy faster than any other Descendant. She often has a large stash of food in her room to eat away from people and Blair will cook for Bunny in a heartbeat.

=+×+=

7. Bunny & the fight with Karel

That "meeting" with Karel and fight against the (weakened) Colissi is a bit more violent in my mind. Bunny loses her right ear in the fight and has permanent damage done to her right eye, giving the Speedster only more reason to hide her face.

=+×+=

8. Bunny's relics

Bunny's shortsword, mentioned previously, is a sword passed down on Bunny's mother's side. It has seen use from 8 generations of the Voltia family, with Bunny being the 9th.

Another part of Bunny's family I headcanon to exist is Bunny's grandfather on her Father's side. He was in Albion's Air Forces, handing down his bomber jacket to his granddaughter before he died. It's Bunny's favorite jacket.

=+×+=

9. Bunny's home

I imagine Bunny's family owned some sort of farm. Bunny loves the farm, doing all these things for her grandma as she got older and Bunny became more capable and willing to help. Bunny now owns the farm, as her grandma is in Albion's finest retirement district, the goal the speedster worked almost her entire life to achieve.

=+×+=

10. Bunny was friends with Dia (Gley's daughter)

Bunny, being one of the youngest (if not the youngest) Descendant, would be relatively new to the program/organization. Therefore, I imagine she was close friends with Gley's daughter, Dia

[if-tomorrow-never-comes]

'The Libertines @thealbionroomsmargate

Typically, fans only witness the band in their familiar ‘live’ or ‘promo’ settings, it has been a privilege revealing this unique side of the group. -Photo by Jason Knott-'

'It's with great excitement that we announce a NEW GALLERY ONLINE!!!

The Libertines @ Albion Rooms The images were taken by @jasonknott_official right before the opening of their new Hotel in Margate, UK. During the week spent with @thelibertines, Jason had the privilege of joining their studio session, capturing an intimate collection of images as they embarked on creating new music after a lengthy hiatus. Visit the gallery 👉https://www.italfotoarchive.com/the-libertines-albion-rooms-margate-uk-2016'

'The Libertines @thealbionroomsmargate

As I silently observed their creative process with the new material, I had the opportunity to delve into their intimate method of composing songs that would eventually grace their album and electrifying live performances. -Photo By Jason Knott-'

https://www.instagram.com/italfotoarchive/?e=433708ca-b414-4f87-9531-fcc77ac0c77d&g=5

[justalittleobsessed]

🧡 A Little Fanfic for You... Or My Fic Masterlist ✍️

Fandoms: Merlin, Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles (all iterations)

Total Fic Count: 31

Main Fic RN: When the Thunder and Lightning Comes (I Know That You'll Be by My Side)

All fics can be found on AO3!

*Last updated October of 2024!

Merlin:

How to Reveal Your Magic Because You Have No Sense Of Self Preservation Whatsoever: A Guide By Merlin Emrys

A series of unrelated one-shots and short stories about Merlin revealing his magic because both he and all his friends are idiots. Also, Merlin, for the life of him, has no sense of self-preservation at all and I try to embody that in these fics.

Series info as of November 2023:

Not completed

10 works (listed below)

Best + Bitter = Better (one-shot, 2,637 words, part 1 of How to Reveal Your Magic series)

This was actually happening. They were being serious. They were actually being completely, utterly serious.

“You can’t actually believe this.” He gestured wildly to the group of people in front of them. Well, as best as he could tied up. This was one of the most ridiculous things he had ever heard. This was… this was… he didn’t even know. “This is complete bullshit.”

“Emrys was clear in his instructions. You must be sacrificed in order to bring peace to Albion”

OR

The one where Merlin has had enough of everyone's shit.

Ironically Alive (one-shot, 3,139 words, part 2 of How to Reveal Your Magic series)

Gwaine smiled that way he does when he wants to tick Arthur off. So really, it was his normal smile. “Seemed like a perfectly reasonable detail to point out.” He flipped his hair to the side, turning to face Arthur.

“Perfectly reasonable?!”

Behind Merlin, he heard some of the bandits shifting, whispering to one another. He was pretty sure it went along the lines of ‘what in the hell is going on’ and ‘there can’t actually be that many mysterious magical druids with blue cloaks that talk about destiny and give out magical red amulets to help stop enchantments that one sorcerer meets’, which, unfortunately, was sad and accurately true.

OR

Merlin is never relaxing ever again. He was going to make sure of that after this shit.

Pick Your Poison (Literally) (one-shot, 2,469 words, part 3 of How to Reveal Your Magic series)

So. That… just happened. Leon, in his lifetime, had witnessed many strange, unbelievable, and frankly quite concerning things. When one lived in Camelot, and was friends with both Arthur and Merlin, one usually got into a lot of crazy and unbelievable situations. And Leon was no exception.

But this. This had to take the cake. “Merlin.”

He hummed in response. It was entirely too calm. “Why did you just drink poison?” Fire, no literal fire and chaos reigned around them.

“It seemed like the reasonable thing to do at the time.”

And yet, he found himself not surprised in the slightest.

Leon pinched the bridge of his nose, feeling the oncoming headache behind his eyes. Goddamn fucking stubborn idiot.

OR

Merlin decides poisoning himself is the best way to prove a point. Leon is just tired. So tired.

Caves and Valleys and Magic, Oh My! (one-shot, 2,603 words, part 4 of How to Reveal Your Magic series)

Merlin stepped back. He was… appalled. Shocked. Angry. Slightly hungry. MAD. Who did they think they were?!

“Excuse me?!” Arthur screeched. “Merlin has magic?!”

“Yes.” Leon deadpanned. “Now please, Merlin.”

How did he get here? How did this happen to him? Why was his life like this? He just wanted to be in his nice warm bed and instead he was soaked, stuck in a magical cave, and made to listen to his friends reveal all his secrets.

Right. Sounded about accurate.

OR

Merlin just wants to be home. Unfortunately, it seems like everyone else his different ideas. Typical.

Let's Do the Time Warp (Hopefully Not Again) (two-shot, 9,946 words, part 5 of How to Reveal Your Magic series)

“Merlin, mate. He’s not lying. I wish you two were married. I, for one, would be your best man, obviously.”

"Poetry," Leon mumbled behind him, "Goddamned poetry."

Merlin gave him another startled look-voice rising in distress. “You were my best man!”

Oh, how thoughtful. Too bad he doesn't remember.

Gwaine gave him a thumbs up. "Okay."

OR

Gwaine is generally confused about everything that is going on. Merlin, on the other hand, just wants to go back to his NORMAL, totally STRESS-FREE life. Hahaha.

Just Another Tuesday (one-shot, 3,104 words, part 6 of How to Reveal Your Magic series)

Arthur… really didn’t understand what was happening here. Look, he was generally confused by Merlin most of the time - the man was a riddle wrapped in an enigma with a side of sass to boot. But this was too much, even by his manservant’s standards.

“No. I refuse to believe this. You,” He pointed at the woman, who had just been walking on water, and then to Merlin, who had just kissed the lady who was walking on water, “and you are not married.”

Merlin and Freya held out their hands. Rings that formed out of water moved onto their previously empty ring fingers.

“Oh,” Merlin said, like an ass, “I think we are.”

OR

Arthur just wants to be in bed. It seems the entire world is against that idea.

Today Has Been Like... Torture (one-shot, 2,299 words, part 7 of How to Reveal Your Magic series)

“Wait a minute… Do you have a pit of fire?”

The shack they were in was very small. Very cramped, and very much smelling of blood. They both looked around the room as if a pit of fire would suddenly appear. Merlin hoped a pit of fire would suddenly appear. That would make getting kidnapped on a Sunday worth it.

Murder Man looked at the ground sadly. “No.” His voice was quiet, sad. So disappointing. A pit of fire would’ve really spiced things up.

OR

Merlin is positively bored. Sounds like a great time to get tortured, of course.

Call It Like It Is (one-shot, 2,900 words, part 8 of How to Reveal Your Magic series)

“How do you…” Arthur wiggles his fingers, like he’s teaching magic to a five-year-old, “conjure the fire?”

“Oh, that’s easy,” Merlin starts, because what the fuck else does he have to do, and Lancelot just looks at him with that stupid look he always does when Merlin’s about to say something particularly stupid- “I call it forth from the deepest pits of hell.”

OR

Everyone may know about Merlin's magic, but nobody knows what he's actually capable of. Merlin decides that this is a great advantage when your boyfriend is an idiot.

To Be a God (one-shot, 2,419 words, part 9 of How to Reveal Your Magic series)

“Bow before me,” The sorcerer announces from his perch atop a pile of rubble, “for I am the Mighty Emrys, and I am a god.” It’s not a very mighty perch for someone who claims to be a god. In fact, it’s a very sad, unremarkable perch. Or maybe he’s just a sad, unremarkable man.

“No, I’m Emrys.” Merlin bites back.

“Maybe… we’re all Emrys.” Gwaine breathes out. Gwaine, Merlin thinks, really needs to shut his mouth.

OR

The one where someone claims to be Emrys, and Merlin decides to put him in his place.

Just a Minor Accident (one-shot, 2,431 words, part 10 of How to Reveal Your Magic series)

“I’m sorry... I must’ve misheard you. What the hell did you just say?” This can’t be real. This cannot possibly be real. He must be hallucinating. Hearing things. Maybe he’s finally lost it. That would make more sense than this.

Gwaine grins back at him with a somewhat manic smile. Merlin tries to sink deeper into his bed. “I said that we accidentally raised the dead.” No. He heard right.

OR

The Knights raise the dead. Merlin just wants one full night of sleep, please.

The Once and Future Reign (one-shot, 7,034 words, part 1 of In Another Time series)

It started with Merlin. It always starts with Merlin.

Just One Yesterday (chapter story w/ 4 chapters, 24,076 words, on hiatus)

Merlin had waited a long, long, long time for the return of Arthur. Maybe even the knights or Gwen. What he wasn't prepared for was an ancient evil rising up to destroy the world. He certainly wasn't prepared for six new occupants in his house, who had no idea how to navigate the new world around them. But, he could handle it. After all, he was the most powerful being on the planet. How hard could it be?

Auribus Teneo Lupum (chapter story w/ 1 chapter, 5,691 words, on hiatus)

Morgana had unleashed something onto this world that had shaken Merlin to his core. Something cold and dark and not at all right. It swirled and settled inside of him, mocking his magic.

No matter what happened in the next few days, Merlin knew that nothing would ever be the same.

The Remnants of a Warlock (one-shot, 6,588 words)

Merlin sees everybody he has ever held close to his heart die off one by one. But he always moves on. He has to. So he locks it up and keep moving, because that's what he does. It's what he'll always do.

OR

The one where Merlin watches as all his friends die. He might see them live, too.

TMNT:

Move Along

Mikey's got this bad habit of dying, and his brothers got this bad habit of not liking that. Mikey would appreciate it if his brothers would stop caring so much, and his brothers would appreciate it if he could start caring about it a whole lot more.

It's gonna be a wild ride.

Series info as of November 2023:

Not completed

2 works (listed below)

I Get Knocked Down (But I Get Up Again) (chapter story w/ 50 chapters, 131,830 words, completed)

Mikey lives, and Mikey dies. He’s been doing it for years, and yeah, sure it’s not his favorite thing to do, but it’s whatever. It’s nothing to worry about. He’s not worried about it. He just hopes his brothers never find out, ‘cause he has a feeling that they’d way overreact.

OR

Mikey’s died a bunch of times and is totally Okay™ with this. His brothers? Not so much.

When the Thunder and Lightning Comes (I Know That You'll Be by My Side) (chapter story w/ 18 chapters, 50,102 words, updates frequently, side story to main fic)

Mikey lives, and Mikey dies. His brothers live too, although they don't die, and find it very concerning that Mikey continuously and worryingly continues to do so without caring. They'll get Mikey to understand that maybe that's not all that great... as soon as they figure out what's going on, that is.

OR

Mikey keeps dying. His brothers would greatly appreciate it if he would stop doing that, please.

On Some Days (one-shot, 2,431 words, TMNT - All Media Types)

Sometimes, if he listened closely enough, he could hear their voices. Not often, not often enough, but sometimes.

It's too Quiet. He misses the Loud.

Life Could Be a Dream (chapter story w/ 9 chapters, 35,678 words, TMNT 2003, TMNT 2012, TMNT IDW, completed)

"Hey Raphie..."

"And that's another thing," he adds, narrowing his eyes, "since when do you call me Raphie?"

Since forever. He wants to say. But that was before, and this is now. He thinks he might kinda hate now.

OR

Mikey, being Mikey, finds trouble. It's just that this trouble seems to involve him being human. It also seems to involve him not talking to his brothers, or having a dad, or being a ninja. So there's that. But all those things can be fixed, right? Something's telling him it's not gonna be as easy as it sounds.

Awaiting Your Arrival (With Simple Survival) (one-shot, 3,481 words, TMNT 2012)

Michelangelo runs into Dimension X with a goal in mind and an unwavering faith that his family will follow right behind him. Except Dimension X screws up that from the very beginning. And keeps continuing to screw up. Again, and again, and again.

OR

Mikey learns how to survive.

Whumptober 2023

Michelangelo-centric whumptober fics!

Series info:

Completed

11 works (listed below)

If Only the World Could Stop Spinning (one-shot, 2,019 words, part 1 of Whumptober 2023, TMNT - All Media Types)

Denial Only Gets You So Far (one-shot, 1,569 words, part 2 of Whumptober 2023, TMNT - All Media Types)

All That Burning (one-shot, 1,058 words, part 3 of Whumptober 2023, TMNT 2012)

Just a Flesh Wound (one-shot, 3,301 words, part 4 of Whumptober 2023, TMNT - All Media Types)

Under Pressure (one-shot, 2,965 words, part 5 of Whumptober 2023, TMNT - All Media Types)

A Survivor's Guilt (one-shot, 833 words, part 6 of Whumptober 2023, TMNT - The Last Ronin)

Don't Go Silent on Me (one-shot, 2,846 words, part 7 of Whumptober 2023, TMNT - All Media Types)

Actions Have Consequences (one-shot, 3,524 words, part 8 of Whumptober 2023, TMNT 2003)

Something Old, Something Treasured (one-shot, 3,517 words, part 9 of Whumptober 2023, TMNT 2003)

Broken Promises (one-shot, 2,228 words, part 10 of Whumptober 2023, TMNT - The Last Ronin)

Not the Best of Days (one-shot, 3,926 words, part 11 of Whumptober 2023, TMNT - All Media Types)

Whumptober 2024

More Michelangelo-centric whumptober fics!

Series info:

In progress

1 work (listed below)

Just Out of Time (one-shot, 771 words, part 1 of Whumptober 2024, TMNT 2018)