#we fall to the level of our discipline

[headlesssamurai]

//patriotic_cassy/

[xcziel]

has anybody else thought about how jk could easily manage sofia's parts of slow dance or is it just me?

[nahimjustfeelingit-writes]

Come And See Me

Summary: “sexually reserved men are THE best. Well behaved, won’t steal a kiss, won’t touch you inappropriately but boy if you give them consent? FINISHED…”

Terry Richmond isn’t the type of man Summer is used to. He’s the strong, silent type. A lot of discipline and control. She’s used to men falling to their knees in an instant. Hardly any dirty talk. But it does feel good to get to know someone on a deeper level for a change. He promises he’d come see her, but Summer didn’t take his word for it. That was, until he walked into that strip club one evening to surprise her with…

“Flowers?”

Summer was in the middle of a routine that earned her bandz at an unimaginable level. She climbed that pole, showed off her acrobatic skills, flexed that body and popped that ass so good she had ‘em lost for words. Speechless.

Terry Richmond walked in with a bouquet of flowers, dressed in khakis, a Curaçao soccer shirt, and white Air Forces. His hair was styled in a tapered cut with a curly fro. In his large, veiny hand, Terry gripped her red roses tightly, walking through until he made it to a section he’d reserved directly in front of the stage. He wanted an up close and personal view of Summer. He didn’t plan to take his aurora gray eyes off of her.

His captivating eyes created a path of seduction across her glistening skin that glittered beneath the strobe lights. Drink in his other hand, he took small sips, licking his lips nice and slow. Terry held the faintest smirk on his lips, body composed, but his heart was racing. His print left little to the imagination. Low grunts fell on deaf ears. Summer hit a split and made her hefty cheeks bounce. That body on her deserved big dick. It was built for big dick. Terry couldn’t wait. It’s been too long. Suddenly, as if she could sense him, Summer glanced over her shoulder and that’s when she realized Terry had shown up.

For a second, she’d forgotten where she was. His presence stunned her. Summer turned her body on the floor of the stage, money sticking to her tacky skin. Their eyes locked on for a while. Oooh, she was speechless. Summer started grinding her crotch towards him, rolling her hips and biting her lip. Terry’s piercing gaze was fixated on her face the entire time. Not once did he look down. It was so intense, her clit pulsated.

Drankin’ and Smokin’ came on and Summer lifted her shapely body into a squat, slowly and teasingly removing her bikini top. At this point, she was putting on a show for Terry and Terry only. Her Marine. She’d had his name saved under Mr. Marine in her phone. The hot pink top fell to the stage, bountiful titties with pierced nipples saluted. Terry dropped his beautiful eyes down to stare at her round, fat titties.

We drink up and we smoke, but she always do the most

It kinda turns me on the way she lickin' on my stones

My chains on antifreeze, it look like I made a clone

Wanna see you get more sassy, if it bring out better emotions

She called me her God, the way I floated in her ocean…

Summer needed him. So bad. That fine ass man. Seeing him in person…seeing the man behind that deep baritone. She rushed off that stage in an instant as soon as the music faded out. Breathing uneven, she walked off in her seven-inch pleasers, looking back at Terry, mind replaying all their conversations late at night…

(one of their many phone conversations)

“Hey baby…I wish you could see what I have on right now…You so sexy, imagine how…Intense it would be…To hold me right now…Our song's playin’…”

Body wrapped in her faux fur, black blanket, head resting against her black satin pillows, Summer held her cellphone to her ear with one hand, the other caressing her tawny skin. Terry made a sound that vibrated her core.

“Summer rain…when I listen to that, you know I think about you, right? Mmm…I bet you look so good in my T-shirt.”

“You’re so far, and I’m all alone in my bed…”

Summer was wearing an old, baggy T-shirt; Terry’s Marine Corps T-shirt. The fabric of it against her body with his voice in her ear gave her butterflies.

I can still hear your baritone

In my ear telling me you'll take it slow

And I was in the mirror playing wrong

Like you were here, I couldn't turn me on

So I fell asleep with the music on

Woke up again hearing the same old song, playing…

Summer paced her bedroom, stopping in front of her window, gazing out into the rainy evening, pressed to the glass, and laughing at Terry and his corny jokes. Her brown eyes followed the path of the raindrops, the sudden recollection of her own essence dripping. All he did was make her laugh, spew facts about things she’d never heard of, and say over and over again how beautiful she is. He didn’t judge her. She felt safe with Terry and she hadn’t even met him in person yet. Thoughts of how gentle and kind and thoughtful he is makes her play in her pussy every night.

“Patience, baby…When I get to you, you’re all mine…”

She shut her lids and pictured him, standing at his towering height, bending over to kiss along her neck and wrap those big arms around her waist. Now, her body is shaking to the fantasies.

“Don’t take it easy on me, Terry. I need you here…”

Summer turned, pressing her back against the window, bringing the collar of his T-shirt to her nose and taking a whiff. Mmmm…it smelled just like his cologne. Vanilla and Sandalwood.

“You’ll be begging me to take it easy on you, baby…”

——

“Summer.”

Terry stood up and approached her. She was wearing a form-fitting black dress with her belongings. Her long, jet-black, silk pressed hair was pinned up with a claw clip. Summer gave Terry a bashful smile. She couldn’t contain the butterflies in her belly. Terry handed her the roses.

“Thank you,” Summer smelled them, “they’re beautiful…I can’t believe it’s really you…”

She knew Terry was tall, but DAMN. She had to crane her neck just to look up at him. And his eyes…Summer found herself getting lost in them.

“You’re so much more beautiful in person. That performance…damn…”

Summer tucked her chin, unable to contain her blushing. Terry startled Summer when he lifted her chin for her to look at him. Her breath hitched.

“Up here…”

“Okay…”

“You did amazing up there. I’m glad I got to see it in person…” Terry whispered with a low, resonant voice.

“Thank you, Terry. Me too.”

“Should we get outta here? I’m kinda anxious right now to have you all to myself…”

Summer chuckled softly, body vibrating with lust. Terry wouldn’t stop admiring her. It was so intense, Summer shyly smiled and dropped her head. What was it about this man that had her acting all giddy and nervous?

“C’mon,” Terry held his hand out for Summer to grasp.

Thighs clenching, Summer accepted Terry’s hand and when she placed her hand in his, Summer almost whimpered. His entire hand swallowed hers. Warm and strong. Fuck. Summer allowed Terry to guide her out of the strip club. When they’d finally made it to the door, Terry placed his hand on the small of her back, holding the door opened for her.

“Did you drive here?” Terry questioned.

“I did,” Summer pointed to her blue lexus, “This is me.”

“I’ll follow you out if that’s okay.”

“It’s more than okay!” Summer responded excitedly.

Terry laughed before opening her door for her when she unlocked it. He helped Summer inside and then he took her things to put them in the back seat. Terry stood at the opening of her driver’s side door, looking down at her with a smirk and soft eyes.

“I’ll be right behind you, baby girl.”

“Okay, Terry…”

She watched as he leaned into her car, her body tensing up. Terry grabbed her hand and pecked it gently to tease, then came that deep chuckle she loved so much. It took her a moment to gather herself. It was the faintest of kisses but the feel of his generous lips against flesh sent sparks throughout her body. The hairs on her arms stood up and her pussy did that pitter-patter thing.

“Drive safe.”

He shut her door and flashed her a quick smile before jogging over to his truck—an all black GMC Sierra 2500HD Denali. Summer started the ignition, licking her lips to . Cocoa butter. She pulled out of the parking lot and checked to see if Terry was following her. When the coast was clear, she drove off with shaky hands and a flutter in her belly.

——

Summer stayed in a nice cul-de-sac home with a two car garage. She’d made enough money as an exotic dancer to purchase a home and move out of her apartment. She hopped out of her car and Terry pulled in closer as soon as she shut the garage. He quickly exited his car and grabbed her duffel bag so she could open the door.

Terry was finally going to see her home. After talking for months and wondering if he would ever come to see her, she didn’t have to doubt him anymore. Summer opened the front door and turned on the lights. The home had a futuristic feel to it that Summer loved. Terry took off his shoes and socks so he wouldn’t ruin her good carpet. While Summer got settled, he did some exploring of the first level.

Biomorphic curves, gravity-defying elements, sleek materials and bold angles. It looked like something dreamed up by Hollywood. Even the staircase leading up to her room with its modern glass rails completed the design. Summer returned with her flowers, giving Terry a megawatt smile filled with dimples and glossy lips. He followed her into her kitchen and watched her place her roses in a vase.

“This is nice, baby,” Terry took in his scenery of sleek stainless steel and marble, “So, this where you cook up them smothered pork chops, collard greens, and red beans and rice, huh?”

Summer giggles, “You know it. This is my favorite place to be. Would you like some wine?”

“I’ll take some, thank you,” Terry placed his arms behind his back as he stood near the kitchen island.

Summer handed him a glass and Terry accepted it with a slight tilt of his head and a penetrating gaze. They toasted each other before taking a sip of the white wine. The silence was palpable. They were both so thrilled to be in each other’s presence that words were lost on their tongues. Terry broke the silence with a nervous chuckle. He gently placed his now empty glass on the kitchen island before walking with slow, purposeful strides to reach Summer on the other side.

Summer had a firm grip on her wine glass, brown eyes ascending his tall frame to reach his gorgeous face. The pictures of him told her that Terry is a rare sight. A man this handsome is hard to come by. To view him in person; skin-to-skin, breath-to-breath, eye-to-eye, Summer had never seen a man so beautiful. Terry reached out to remove the glass from her hand and he sat it down on the counter top.

“Miss. Summer. I’ve been waitin’ a long time for this moment…and I know that I’ve made promises to come see you…that haven’t been fulfilled…and I’m sure you’ve had your doubts…”

“I have, I’m not gonna sugar-coat it. But you’re here now,” Summer exhaled slowly, “I don’t have to fantasize about what it would be like to have you next to me in my bed anymore…”

When you're not here

(I sleep in your t-shirt)

I wish you were here

(To take off your t-shirt)

After we make love

(I sleep in your t-shirt)

Wake up in your t-shirt

I smell the scent of your cologne…

“I don’t have to wish anymore,” Summer blinked up at Terry as she reached out her hand to stroke his arm that’s two sizes bigger than hers and covered in veins, “Or wonder if we could be something…”

“Hey,” Terry drew in closer his voice lowering a register, “We are something, baby. I need to get that doubt out your head…may I?”

Terry opened his arms and Summer gave her consent with a nod of her head before his arms hugged her tight. Summer pressed her cheek centimeters below his chest. He’s so big and warm. Body beneath his T-shirt unyielding. Terry’s hands began to explore. One hand threaded into her hair, massaging her scalp through her silky, thick tresses, the other glided up and down her back soothingly. Summer couldn’t remember the last time she’d been hugged like this by a man if not ever.

“I wanna explain what held me up a while…I had some legal issues in Shelby Springs…my cousin got mixed up in some mess and I went to bail him out but…he died.”

“The cousin you told me about? Are you serious?”

Summer rested her chin against Terry’s chest as she looked up at him with saddened eyes. He looked back at her, so much emotion swirling in those blue-gray orbs with flecks of gold and brown, as if they are forever changing.

“Yeah,” Terry’s shoulders slumped, “It’s a lot…still gotta clear my name…lawyer up…I’m sorry I’m dumping all this shit on you right now—”

“Don’t be, Terry, don’t be,” Summer caressed Terry’s cheek, “That’s a lot. I’m so sorry…I can’t imagine…”

Summer squeezed Terry and he reciprocated. She felt her body being lifted from the floor and her arms wrapped around his neck.

“I’m so sorry about your cousin.” Summer said.

“Thank you, ‘ppreciate that…you’re so precious…”

Summer smiled fondly at Terry, “You’re such a good man, Terry Richmond.”

He loved that she said that. It made him smile handsomely down at her. She wanted to continue putting a smile on his face.

“You’re my safe space, Summer…”

She shut her eyes to avoid the onslaught of tears. It’s only been months that they’ve been talking. She’s his safe space?

“Terry…”

“Can I kiss you?”

“Yes—”

Terry hooked his hands beneath Summer’s ass and hiked her up so her thighs could circle his cut waistline. One hand cradled the back of her neck while the other secured her waist snugly against him.

Summer felt her heart race. The air was thick with the creamy, warm, and earthy scent of his cologne, and the distant sound of her heartbeat faded into the background. A mix of security and excitement reflected in their depths.

With a tentative smile, Terry brushed a loose strand of hair behind her ear, sending shivers down her spine. The hand against her waist gave a gentle squeeze that spoke volumes. Time seemed to slow as he leaned in, their breaths mingling.

When their lips finally met, it was soft and hesitant at first, testing the waters. But as the kiss deepened, the world around them faded away, leaving only the warmth of their connection and the thrill of a moment long awaited. Their tongues danced a slippery recital, lip’s cushiony, teeth grazing.

He’d ached to taste her. To taste a woman after so long. Summer’s daydreaming didn’t prepare her for the reality in front of her. Terry’s long legs began to guide them into Summer’s living room and towards her couch. He pulled away so that he could place her on her back. Summer’s dress had ridden up her shapely thighs revealing smooth, tawny skin. Terry knelt one leg between her thighs before lowering over her. Summer lifted to kiss him again, but Terry stopped her with a single finger to her lips.

“…It’s been way too long for me, baby girl. Seeing you dance tonight…doing your thing up there…it took a lot of work not to walk up on that stage and put this dick in you.”

Summer’s breath hitched.

“I’ve painted a picture in my mind many times of what that body looked like…” Terry’s eyes dropped down to the tops of Summer’s breasts, “I don’t think I ever told you I’m a breast man…and you got a pair that I just wanna…”

He pressed his face into her neck and inhaled. Summer drew her bottom lip into her mouth to control the incessant trembling. He’d never talked this dirty to her.

“…I just wanna suck and lick and nibble all over these titties…”

She could feel her nipples hardening from his words alone. Hearing it in person and so close to her ears had a greater effect. Summer was squirming. Her pussy leaked so much that it became unbearable to even wear panties around him. She’d have to walk around with an exposed pussy to cool off.

“I can suck these titties all night…sleep with a titty in my mouth…play with your nipples until you’re squirming…flick your nipples with my tongue…you got some thick nipples too, baby…mmmh…”

That long, drawn out groan into her neck had her whimpering. This man had her weak. Summer raked her nails down his chest before twisting the fabric of his T-shirt into her fist.

“Here, please,” Summer thrust her chest into him, “Daddy, please…”

“I love the way you beg, baby girl…” Terry kissed down her neck, “you’ll be doin’ a lot of that shit tonight. Beg for me to suck on that pussy…beg for me to fit this dick in you nice and good…”

“Terry…”

His malleable lips created a tickling sensation until he reached her breasts. Summer watched with desperation as his lips covered the fleshy hills in a repeated motion. She was mewling. Nipples so hard. He started kissing around each nipple through her dress. Summer clawed the suede sofa.

“Daddy…”

She was shivering.

“Want more? Where you want it? Talk to me…”

She was able to control the quiver of her lower lip to speak, “Please suck on my nipples…I can’t take it.”

“Nahhh, you gotta beg harder than that…”

Summer moaned softly, “uhnnnnnn…” when he used his teeth to nibble on her nipples, “Daddy, I want you to suck my nipples. Do whatever you want to my titties…please, please, please….”

Terry peered up at Summer with those hypnotic eyes.

“Good girl…that’s how you ask for what you want…”

With one hand, Terry’s eyes remained fixated on Summer’s face, he lowered the top of her strapless, body-con dress, one beautiful, round, breast coming into view. Skin like honey, nipples and areolas a deep brown. Busty and asymmetrical. Perfectly imperfect. Her bejeweled nipple pebbled and Terry’s lips parted.

“Shit, you just don’t know…”

He revealed the other breast and it jiggled a little upon its release.

“So fuckin’ beautiful…”

He blew air onto her nipples. Summer arched her back. Terry used that opportunity to slither his hands beneath her to keep her chest elevated so he could attack each big titty the way he wanted. Hair in her face, glossy lips slightly open, soft moans flowing from her mouth, Summer looked pleasantly horny.

Terry started off with flicking her nipples back and forth. His pink tongue is warm and wet. When his lips drew her left nipple into her mouth first, Summer cried out. Her thighs gripped his waist, and Terry couldn’t wait to feel those soft thighs do the same thing to his head.

“Ah, mmm, unhhhh, yesss…you like these fat titties, daddy?”

“Mhm,” Terry was in the zone sucking back and forth.

She could tell he was a titty man alright. He rubbed his face in it, dragged his teeth down her breast bone, used his big, strong, veiny hands to push her breast together so he could trace his tongue back and forth.

“I’m a need you to do that on this pussy!”

Terry released a laugh, burying his face between her breasts. Summer was hot all over and close to tackling this man!

“More wine first,” Terry rest his cheek against one of her breasts as he looked up at her, “So soft…the best pillow…”

Summer exhaled impatiently, “You’re driving me crazy.”

“Good.”

Terry kissed her breasts one last time before covering her back up, “Are you okay with me getting the wine? While you put on some music?”

Summer wasn’t prepared for the visual. Terry stood up and as he was fixing his shirt that had lifted up, she focused on those abs, the strip of hair leading down to his crotch, and the deep v-cut. The lower her eyes went, the more she had to stop herself from dropping to her knees. A very vivid and distinct outline of his third leg sat along his thigh like a python beneath a sheet waiting to strike. He was on brick.

“It’ll be all yours tonight…”

Their eyes met with equal desire.

“I’ll go grab that wine…bathroom?”

“Uh…d–down the hall and t–to your right.”

Terry chuckled, “I’ll be back.”

He disappeared and Summer let out a long exhale. She walked over to her Bluetooth sound system and knew exactly what she wanted to listen to.

——

Summer dimmed the lights with her cell phone and after five minutes, Terry returned with their glasses and a bottle.

Storming outside, rain

She keeps me home

Quiet conversation makes me warm

So

Summer rain

Whispers me to sleep

And wakes me up again

Sometimes i swear i hear her call my name…

Terry smiled at her. Summer pat the sofa cushion next to her enthusiastically. He handed her a glass and plopped down, throwing an arm over her shoulder. His finger tips caressed her arm as they sang along to summer rain

“So go ahead and make it rain…you bring the sunshine back again…”

“Okay vocals!” Summer teased.

Terry threw his head back and laughed, “Stop.”

“I’m just teasing, daddy,” Summer snuggled closer, “More wine, please…”

“Anything for you,” Terry leaned forward to retrieve the bottle.

Summer rain started playing again.

They emptied the bottle of wine and their tipsy banter stared. Terry was very playful. He had Summer trapped beneath him on the throw rug, his shirt off and thrown somewhere. Summer couldn’t stop giggling. The wine had her feeling light and cozy. Her laughter couldn’t be contained.

“If you follow directions, I wouldn’t have to do this,” Terry had her by her wrists above her head, “You gotta behave to get what you want, Summer. I’m not asking…I’m telling.”

“It’s on my thigh, and you expect me to behave?”

“I expect you to remember who’s in charge…”

“Terry,” Summer rolled her eyes, “You haven’t felt how deep this throat can go yet.”

“So? What that mean?” Terry arched a dark brow, “You ain’t felt my mouth on your pussy yet.”

Terry sat back on his knees above Summer. She lifted up onto her elbows. He tucked his chin slightly and stared at her with this primal look that reminded her of a jungle cat.

“…take this dress off.”

Summer sat up on her butt and shimmy’s her hips, bringing her dress up and over her head, revealing black, cheeky, lace panties and a matching strapless bra. Terry crawled to her. He pulled her into a fierce kiss. Summer’s hands roamed all over his muscles. His skin is so soft.

“Your room…now…” Terry spoke against her lips, “Right now…”

They both stood on unsteady legs, laughing. Terry popped Summer on the ass and she whimpered softly. They moved towards the stairs, Terry creating space between them so he could watch Summer seduce him with her slow ascend. She would look back at him as she climbed, smirking at him with those siren eyes. That booty in those panties made him want to take a bite.

He’d been dying to see her room. She pushed open the double doors and Terry came face-to-face with a room made for a vixen. The dark palate mixed with low lighting created the perfect space to get nasty. And he planned to get real nasty. Terry walked up on Summer from behind, and with one hand, he gathered her straightened hair into his fist neatly and tugged. She pivoted back against him, her soft cheeks flush against his crotch.

“I’m undressing you…”

Hair still in his grasp, Terry worked on her bra. It fell from her body to the floor. He released her hair so that he could drop down and take her panties off. Summer looked over her shoulder at him. He peeled her panties away at a snails pace. His lips kissed her back dimples. She wiggled her hips to help him lower her panties. Buttery, smooth skin beneath his fingertips.

Terry nibbled on her ass like a famished man. His hands kneaded her plump flesh. It was time to peel the crotch of her panties away from her pussy.

“Bend forward slightly…yes…just like that…”

His deep grunt told her all she needed to know. Terry was blown away by how much sticky, wetness connected to her panties. A slimy, sweetness he couldn’t wait to clean up with his tongue. The aroma of her arousal activated his taste buds. The shape of her lips from the back had him mesmerized. Summer stepped out of her panties quickly so Terry could have her completely.

“C’mere,” Terry stood and walked Summer towards her bed, “Sit this pussy on my mouth right now.”

He got down on the floor and tilted his head back on the bed. Summer straddled his face and tilted her pelvis forward. Terry placed each hand on her ass to push her closer. The moment her pussy smothered him, he used his tongue to clean up her mess.

“Fuck!”

Summer felt his tongue part her outer lips and swipe upward. She almost saw heaven.

“Mhm…”

Her legs shook. Terry pushed her legs apart further with force so he can eat it more. Summer raised a leg to the edge of the bed and Terry wasted no time using his lips and tongue in junction to slurp on her pussy.

“Yes….oh….”

This was a man that knew what he was doing. He didn’t have to tell you. Summer started feeding his mouth some pussy with a roll of her hips. Terry followed her movements eagerly. Clit hard, folds nice and slick, she knew she was close. It was only a matter of time.

“Terry, I’m gonna cum in your mouth…”

His silence was her undoing. He was too busy eating pussy like a starved man. She could hear his big lips working her up to a juicy cum. His tongue darting in and out of her wet hole, her clit being attacked from every angle imaginable, she was going to burst.

“Terry…Terryyyyyy…”

That ass and those thighs jiggled out of control.

“Uhhhhhh….ahhhhhhh….huuuuuuuuhh….”

She fisted the sheets so hard her nails dug info her skin painfully. The aftershocks of her release left lingering tremors she couldn’t control. Terry removed his lips from her clit, a trail of her cum connected to his bottom lip. His face was covered in sweat and cum. Summer threw herself onto the bed so Terry could stand. She looked at him and watched as he licked his lips.

“So good…your pussy tastes so good…”

“Thank you…now I wanna taste you…”

It was the moment she’d been waiting for. Terry hummed his approval, walking up towards her. Summer worked to undo his pants with frantic movements. Terry didn’t stop her. She wanted that dick in her mouth.

“Get yours, baby…”

“Oh, I will,” Summer replied.

Summer lowered his pants and briefs. His dick bobbed out and she had to take a moment to just…

He was definitely a big boy. Enough to stretch you out. That pain and pleasure mix. His length told her she would feel it in her stomach. The veins created a path for her tongue to take. His tip; the perfect shape to fit in her mouth perfectly. His balls were taunt and heavy. It was a masterpiece.

“Summer…put this dick in your mouth…that’s an order.”

An order she would gladly accept. Summer kissed along his shaft. Terry smoothed her hair back so she wouldn’t mess it up. Her kisses turned sloppy, then she added some tongue, then she found herself sinking down onto his pole the sides of her mouth stretched to accommodate all of him.

“Put more in there,” Terry placed his arms behind his back, watching her like a drill sergeant, “there you go…such a good little thing, ain’t you?”

He sat at the back of her throat. Summer used her neck and jaw muscles to work that dick with loud sucking and spit bubbles. Terry’s mouth dropped open when she showed him that she could deep throat. Her tongue wiggled against his balls and Terry almost nutted down her throat from that alone.

“Damn, girl…you lovin’ this big dick?”

“Mmmmcmcjdkssk—”

“Fuuuck,” Terry’s beautiful eyes rolled shut, “that’s how you suck this dick…that’s how you show daddy…”

Summer loved sucking dick. Terry’s dick deserved all the love. She would suck it and look in his eyes. Terry stared back with furrowed brows and a bite of his lip.

“Summer…”

Her name resonated from his voice so deep and lustrous.

She pulled out all her tricks. Sucked his balls, focused on his tip, licked his frenulum. Terry’s ab muscles flexed and his squared jaw clenched. Her hair in his grip, Terry was losing his sanity.

“I’m cumming—”

Thick, ropes of ejaculate filled her mouth.

“Ughh–ahhhhh fuck—”

Summer drank down every single drop like it was the sweetest cream filling. She’d waited months to do this and she was going to make this beautiful man cum. That fat dick hung in her face ready for more action and she had a wet pussy for it to dig into.

“Aight, on your back, no more wasting time.”

Terry spoke those words with such urgency. Summer felt the firmness in his tone. She scooted onto the bed and spread her legs wide and limber. Terry climbed onto the bed and settled between her legs. The feeling of the tip of his dick sitting against her pussy lips made this moment all too real.

“Yes…put that big dick in me…”

Terry placed himself above her and with one hand, he guided his dick between her lips and then with a slight thrust of his hips, he sank inside of Summer. She gasped, knees drawing into her chest. Terry watched his dick split her open with a penetrating stare. Summer tried to move and Terry locked her legs to her ears.

“You want me to keep you still? I suggest you stop moving.”

She froze.

With one thrust, he was fully inside of her. Summer moaned louder. As a reflex, she tried to close her legs, but Terry wasn’t having that.

“Terry! Holy FUCKING SHIT!”

“Eyes on me. That’s an order.”

He smirked mischievously. She was ruined.

Terry pumped into her at a moderate pace. Summer couldn’t handle taking all that dick and focusing on his eyes at the same time. There was no way.

“It’s so big!”

“It’s big but this pussy love it, this pussy love it, look at this pussy…creamin’ all over me like that…such a messy girl…”

Summer was making a mess indeed. You could hear it and see it. Wet, sloshing noises.

“Ain’t been fucked in a while…got you wettin’ this dick up.”

She couldn’t handle the way his dick stroked her spot.

“Stretchin’ this pussy out? Didn’t I say I wasn’t gon’ take it easy?”

She couldn’t speak. How could she? Terry had her folded in half and teetering over the edge. She felt her stomach grow tight and her body seized up.

“T–T–T—”

Summer didn’t have a chance. She turned her head and cried out. Terry held his dick deep while staring down at her face.

“You tryna push me out?” Terry chuckled evily, “What if I don’t wanna leave?”

“P–please, daddy…”

“Hmm,” Terry slowly withdrew his hips, “Please keep fucking you?”

His words were killing her. She could only nod her head.

Oh! Boy I've been waiting

(Oh oh oh)

Now my body's shaking

(Oh oh oh)

You're so deep, baby please, take it easy…

“Think you can arch your back for me?”

Terry kissed Summer on her lips.

“Mhm…”

Terry lifted Summer and helped her into position. She arched her back exactly how he wanted her. Deep with that ass high in the air. He was tall so it needed to be. Terry had a handful of her ass and that was his leverage to anchor his dick in her pussy. Summer groaned into the sheets. She looked breathtaking. Hair fanned out above her. Back in a beautiful position. Ass sitting up and giving Terry the best view of that pink pussy.

“Oooh!”

She could feel him almost touch her heart with how long his dick is!

“Terry, it’s too much!”

He wasn’t even giving her all of him. He arched a brow down at her.

“What did we discuss…”

She knew to be a big girl but LAWD he was hefty.

“I know…it’s just so big…”

“With a body like this…it’s built for dick like mine…”

He stroked slower, Summer drooling onto her sheets.

“Nah you look at me when I’m in this pussy…”

“Summer turned her head and looked back at Terry.

“There’s my pretty girl…such a pretty girl.”

Summer put a finger in her mouth and sucked on it like a pacifier while staring into his eyes.

“Fine ass,” Terry picked up the pace.

“Mmph! Mmph! Mmph!”

Summer bit down on her finger and her eyes crossed. She coated his dick again and at this point it was dripping wet. Terry pulled out and ate her from behind. He couldn’t control himself. Summer tried to move her hips away and it earned a sharp slap to the ass. Terry resurfaced, pumping his dick in his hand. He snatched Summer by her hair and abruptly angled her head to suck him off. Summer did just that while Terry fingered her pussy from the back. He started talking her through it.

“Fingers deep in this pussy, little one? Mmhm…”

Summer stroked him while sucking on his tip.

“There you go, such a creamy little slut…”

She furrowed her brows at the feeling of two fingers pumping her. She was leaking to the bed.

“Daddy fingering this pussy good? Hmm?”

Summer spit his dick out, “I’m cumming!”

Terry continued to work his fingers knuckle deep. Summer felt something burst inside of her and soon she was creating a puddle between her legs. Terry’s fingers slipped out and he brought them to her mouth to taste. Summer licked them clean for him.

“I know you can give me more, right?”

“Yes…” Summer replied weakly.

Terry placed Summer on her back and then he got between her legs from the side. Terry pointed his still hard dick at her pussy and with one look into her eyes he was back inside like he never left. His toned hips worked to drill her hole.

“Daddy! Cum already!” Summer begged.

It felt too good and she couldn’t handle the overwhelming pleasure. She pressed a weak hand against his abs, attempting to push him away, only for Terry to lock her wrist down. He licked his lips at her and gave her a sly smirk while continuing to fuck her into the mattress.

“Terry…”

“Yes?”

Summer erupted. The tight hold from her walls made his balls tighten and his dick pulsate within her wetness.

“Give me this pussy!”

Terry’s hips stuttered out of control. He couldn’t hold off any longer. This good pussy on her had his dick so sensitive.

“Summer…FUCK!”

Terry pulled out and Summer shot up from the bed with her tongue poked out and eyes on him. Terry fisted his long dick, emptying a big load all over her tongue and face. It just wouldn’t stop. His ass muscles clenched from the overwhelming pressure. Summer looked pleasantly fucked and her giggle warmed his heart.

“You’re such a nasty girl…”

“All for you…”

[aventurineswife]

“Reqs are open and my inbox is empty‼️‼️”

Not for long. (Now I sleep, ehe.)

—I’d absolutely adore you to write a scenario for Dan Heng, Sunday, and Aventurine (Possibly Shadow if you feel real extra tonight.)

How would each character react towards their partner falling asleep against them? Whether it’s late at night, early morning, they’re simply too comfortable to keep themselves awake.. and this would dawn on our dear characters. Feeling a sense of warmth, knowing their presence brings such a high level of comfort n’ security, where we—the reader fall asleep with ease no matter where we are so long as we have them. 💙✨

Anchored in Stillness

Tags: Dan Heng x Reader, Sunday x Reader, Aventurine x Reader, Comfort, Quiet Moments Softness, Vulnerability Gentle Affection, Bonding, Emotional Reflection, Introspection, Slow Burn, Established Relationship.

It was late in the quiet hours of the night, the gentle hum of the Astral Express barely audible as it sailed through the endless expanse of space. Dan Heng sat in a corner of the lounge, eyes scanning a book that had long since lost its grip on his attention. His focus, though steady and disciplined as always, was elsewhere now. The warmth of the room, combined with the soft whirring of the train, created a sense of peace he rarely afforded himself.

It was then that he felt it—soft pressure on his shoulder. His eyes drifted to his side, and he froze for a moment. There, resting against him, was you, your body relaxed in a deep, untroubled sleep. Your presence, warm and quiet, was almost a contrast to his own habitual distance. Dan Heng’s gaze softened slightly, the weight of the moment settling over him.

His lips parted, but no words came. He didn’t want to disturb you. There was something deeply comforting about this—how, even in the quietest, most vulnerable moment, you trusted him to be your anchor. He didn’t feel the need to say anything. The connection was unspoken, but it was real.

Dan Heng shifted subtly, ensuring his posture was just right so you could remain comfortable. He could feel the steady rhythm of your breathing against him, each inhale a small reassurance. It was in these moments, in the quiet stillness of the night, that he allowed himself a brief reprieve from the guilt, from the weight of the past that clung to him so tightly. Here, now, in the silence, he felt something akin to peace. He wasn’t alone—not anymore.

And as you continued to sleep soundly, his own eyes fluttered closed, the faintest trace of a sigh escaping his lips. For the first time in a long while, he wasn’t running from something.

The moonlight outside cast a soft glow over the Astral Express, and the cabin was bathed in a tranquil, almost ethereal light. Sunday sat at the edge of the couch, a book forgotten in his lap. His eyes wandered to the window, but his thoughts drifted elsewhere. The gentle rhythm of the train’s movement was lulling, but it wasn’t what held his attention tonight.

It was the soft, rhythmic sound of breathing beside him. He turned, and there, curled up against his side, was you, eyes closed in peaceful slumber. Your body was relaxed, the weight of your head resting against his shoulder. For a moment, Sunday merely watched you, his eyes softening as he observed the vulnerability you showed in your sleep.

His wings fluttered slightly, as if subconsciously reacting to the warmth you exuded. He felt an unfamiliar warmth in his chest—a sense of duty, yes, but something deeper, too. A connection that went beyond his usual capacity for empathy. It was the kind of bond that, despite all his doubts and internal struggles, felt undeniably right.

He felt your presence, steady and grounding, and it soothed him in ways he couldn’t quite describe. The idea that he could be someone who provided comfort—that he could be the source of someone else’s peace—was something he had never fully embraced before. Yet, here it was, real and undeniable.

Sunday’s breath caught for a moment as he allowed himself the luxury of simply being in the moment. He was so used to thinking of others, to sacrificing for the collective good, that he often forgot how to simply be for himself. But with you here, asleep and safe, he felt a strange sense of ease. It was a quiet reassurance, like a whisper in his heart that reminded him of the small, beautiful connections that made life worth living.

His hand shifted slightly, resting over your shoulder, fingers brushing lightly against your skin. He wasn’t sure if you were aware of his touch, but it didn’t matter. The warmth between you was enough, and with a soft sigh, Sunday closed his eyes for a brief moment. There, in the stillness, he allowed himself the rare indulgence of peace.

Aventurine, ever the master of managing his surroundings, sat in his luxurious chair, surveying the quiet room with a calculated detachment. It was well into the night, and the flickering light of a candle danced across the polished surfaces of the cabin, casting long shadows on the walls. He should have been focusing on the many schemes, the next move in the game, but something about tonight felt different.

He had thought he was alone in the room, but as he shifted slightly in his chair, he felt a warmth at his side. Looking down, he saw you, your head gently resting against his shoulder, your body soft and relaxed as you drifted off to sleep. Your presence was unexpected, yet it wasn’t unwelcome.

Aventurine’s eyes narrowed slightly, the usual hint of calculation in his gaze replaced by something softer. He had never been one to let his guard down, not even for a moment, but here he was, caught off-guard by the intimacy of it all. His mind raced as he quickly calculated the right course of action—should he move? Should he speak?

But then he paused.

Your presence, your comfort, filled the space around him. The gentle rise and fall of your chest, the warmth radiating from you—it was an unexpected peace, a momentary break from the endless games of strategy he played with his life. For all his calculated risks and meticulous plans, he hadn’t anticipated something as simple as this.

He allowed himself a rare, almost imperceptible smile, his eyes flickering with a touch of vulnerability—just for a moment. His gloved hand moved almost instinctively, brushing a loose strand of hair from your face, his touch gentle despite the harshness of his demeanor. He hadn’t realized how much he had longed for this kind of closeness, this kind of warmth.

The silence was heavy with unspoken words, the tension of his past and his ambition swirling just beneath the surface, but for now, Aventurine let it all fade into the background. Your presence grounded him, and for the first time in a long while, the thrill of the gamble didn’t feel so urgent. With a quiet sigh, he allowed his body to relax, his hand resting on the armrest of the chair as he let his thoughts drift, your warmth a silent reminder of the connection he never quite understood but desperately needed.

In the soft silence of the night, Aventurine let the game rest, just for a while.

[andy-15-07]

A Family Beyond War

Pairing: Marcus Acacius x female reader Word Count: 2616 Pedro Pascal Masterlist

The sun burned high in the sky over Rome, its rays reflecting off the golden armor of General Marcus Acacius as he stood on the training field. His two sons, Cassius and Tiberius, mirrored his stance, their youthful faces determined as they wielded wooden practice swords. Marcus’ wife, Y/N, watched from a shaded pergola nearby, her youngest daughter, Aurelia, seated beside her with a scroll of poetry in her lap. The warm air was filled with the clanging of swords and the occasional barked correction from Marcus.

Cassius, the eldest at 18, struck forward with precision, his blade aiming for Tiberius’ midsection. Tiberius, 17, blocked, his movements slightly more hesitant but determined nonetheless. Marcus stepped forward, his commanding presence evident as he corrected Tiberius’ stance.

“Keep your guard high, Tiberius,” Marcus instructed. “A single mistake in the field could cost you your life.”

“Yes, Father,” Tiberius replied, adjusting his posture under his father’s watchful gaze.

Aurelia looked up from her scroll, her brow furrowed. “Must they always fight? There is more to life than swords and shields.”

Y/N chuckled softly, brushing a strand of Aurelia’s dark hair back. “Your brothers wish to follow in your father’s footsteps. It is their way of honoring him.”

“But I do not wish to honor bloodshed,” Aurelia replied, her voice tinged with disapproval. “What glory is there in taking a life?”

Before Y/N could respond, Marcus’ voice rang out. “Enough for today! Cassius, Tiberius, well done. Your skill improves daily.”

The boys beamed under their father’s praise, their faces flushed from exertion. As they approached, Marcus’ eyes softened as they fell upon Y/N and Aurelia. “And how are my ladies?” he asked, his tone gentle.

“Aurelia was just lamenting the barbarity of your craft,” Y/N teased, a playful smile on her lips.

Marcus knelt beside Aurelia, his hand resting on her shoulder. “You disapprove of our training, little one?”

Aurelia hesitated, then nodded. “It is violent and cruel. Surely there is a better way to resolve conflict.”

Marcus’ expression grew thoughtful. “Perhaps you are right, Aurelia. But until the world embraces peace, men like your brothers and I must be prepared to defend our home and our family.”

Aurelia sighed, her gaze falling to her scroll. “I wish the world could see the beauty in words instead of war.”

Later that evening, the family dressed in their finest attire and made their way to the Colosseum. The massive structure loomed ahead, its arches and columns illuminated by the setting sun. The roar of the crowd grew louder as they entered, the scent of sweat and anticipation thick in the air.

Y/N took her seat beside Marcus in the reserved section, their children flanking them. Aurelia sat stiffly, her discomfort evident as the first fight began. She flinched at the clash of swords and the cheers of the crowd as a gladiator fell to his knees.

“Barbaric,” Aurelia muttered under her breath.

Marcus glanced at her, his brow furrowing. “Aurelia, come with me.”

Surprised, she followed her father out of the stands and into the quieter corridors of the Colosseum. Marcus stopped in a shaded alcove, turning to face her. “Speak your mind, daughter.”

Aurelia took a deep breath, her hands trembling slightly. “I hate it, Father. The blood, the violence, the cheers for death. It’s monstrous. How can you support this?”

Marcus’ jaw tightened, and for a moment, he said nothing. Then, he knelt to her level, his eyes filled with a rare vulnerability. “I do not enjoy it, Aurelia. But it is a part of the world we live in. The Colosseum is not just a place of death; it is a reminder of Rome’s power, of the discipline and strength that built our empire.”

Aurelia’s eyes welled with tears. “Must strength always come at such a cost?”

“No,” Marcus admitted. “Strength can also be found in compassion, in wisdom, in the courage to speak against what you believe is wrong. You have that strength, Aurelia. Do not let the ugliness of this world dim your light.”

She threw her arms around his neck, her voice muffled against his shoulder. “I love you, Father. I just wish things could be different.”

Marcus held her tightly, his heart heavy with the weight of her words. “So do I, my little poet. So do I.”

The weeks that followed saw a shift in the family dynamics. Marcus encouraged Aurelia’s passion for poetry, often asking her to recite verses during family meals. Cassius and Tiberius, inspired by their sister’s bravery in confronting their father, began to view their training with a new perspective, seeking to emulate not just their father’s strength but also his wisdom and compassion.

One evening, as the family sat together in their garden, Aurelia stood and cleared her throat. “I have written something,” she announced, her cheeks pink with nervousness.

Marcus gestured for her to continue, pride evident in his eyes. “Let us hear it, Aurelia.”

She unfolded a parchment and began to read, her voice steady and filled with emotion. Her words painted a picture of a world where swords were beaten into plowshares, where the cries of battle were replaced by songs of peace. As she finished, the family sat in awed silence.

“Beautiful,” Y/N whispered, wiping a tear from her cheek.

Marcus rose and embraced his daughter. “You have a gift, Aurelia. Never stop sharing it.”

In that moment, the general and his poet found common ground, their love for each other bridging the divide between war and peace.

As the seasons passed, Aurelia’s poetry began to gain attention beyond their household. Word of her talent spread, and soon she was invited to recite her work at gatherings and festivals. Marcus and Y/N attended every event, their pride in their daughter evident to all who saw them.

One day, Aurelia returned home with a scroll in hand, her eyes alight with excitement. “Father, Mother, I have been invited to present my work at the Forum!”

Marcus smiled, his heart swelling with pride. “The Forum is a place of great importance. You will be speaking to some of Rome’s most influential minds. Are you ready for such an audience?”

Aurelia nodded confidently. “I am ready. My words will speak of peace and understanding. Perhaps they will inspire change.”

On the day of the event, the family arrived at the Forum, where a large crowd had gathered. Aurelia stood on the raised platform, her presence commanding despite her young age. She began to speak, her voice clear and passionate. Her words wove a tapestry of hope, challenging the audience to envision a Rome where wisdom and compassion reigned supreme.

As she concluded, the crowd erupted into applause. Marcus watched with a mixture of pride and awe as his daughter descended the platform and was surrounded by admirers. He saw in her the potential to shape a better future, one that transcended the violence and bloodshed that had defined his own life.

That evening, as the family gathered in their garden once more, Marcus raised a cup in a toast. “To Aurelia, whose words have the power to change the world. May her light guide us all.”

The family joined in the toast, their bond stronger than ever. In that moment, they were not just a family of warriors and poets but a beacon of hope for a better Rome.

As Aurelia’s influence grew, she began to attract the attention of Rome’s elite. Senators and scholars sought her counsel, and even the emperor himself invited her to speak at the palace. Marcus, though wary of the political implications, supported his daughter’s endeavors, knowing that her voice was a force for good.

Cassius and Tiberius, inspired by their sister’s courage, began to explore their own paths beyond the training field. Cassius developed an interest in engineering, designing structures that could benefit Rome’s citizens. Tiberius, meanwhile, turned his focus to diplomacy, using his father’s teachings to mediate disputes and foster alliances.

One evening, as the family dined together, Tiberius spoke up. “Father, I have been invited to accompany a delegation to Gaul. They believe my skills as a mediator could be of use.”

Marcus regarded his son with a mixture of pride and concern. “Gaul is a land of uncertainty. Are you prepared for the challenges you may face?”

Tiberius nodded. “I am, Father. You have taught me well.”

Marcus placed a hand on his son’s shoulder. “Then go with my blessing. Make me proud.”

As the family’s influence continued to grow, they became a symbol of hope and unity in a fractured empire. Marcus, once known solely as a warrior, found his legacy evolving through the achievements of his children. Together, they forged a new path for Rome, one that balanced strength with compassion, and tradition with progress.

And through it all, Aurelia’s words remained a guiding light, reminding them of the power of hope, love, and understanding in a world often overshadowed by darkness.

As Aurelia’s influence spread, the delicate balance between her poetic pursuits and her family’s military legacy continued to shift. Her poetry, infused with visions of peace and a world beyond war, struck a chord with many in the elite circles of Rome. It wasn't long before high-ranking senators, philosophers, and even foreign dignitaries sought her counsel. Her words, once confined to the walls of their home, were now finding an audience in the halls of power.

Marcus, despite his initial hesitation, couldn't help but feel immense pride in his daughter’s growing stature. He had long been known as the great general, a man of iron and blood, his legacy tied to the battles he fought and the empire he helped to build. But as Aurelia’s influence grew, he realized that his legacy was evolving, shifting into something more than just strength and conquest.

Cassius and Tiberius, too, found their paths diverging from the training fields and the weight of their father’s expectations. Cassius, with his keen mind and inventive spirit, took an interest in engineering. Inspired by the growing need for infrastructure in Rome, he set about designing new aqueducts to carry water to the farthest reaches of the city, improving life for the common people.

Tiberius, always more thoughtful and diplomatic than his brothers, began to consider a future in statecraft. His natural ability to mediate disputes, honed in the small lessons his father had given him over the years, became a vital tool as he began traveling with the diplomatic corps. He was frequently tasked with negotiating with foreign dignitaries, ensuring that Rome’s alliances remained strong, even as the empire stretched its borders farther than ever before.

One day, while Marcus and Y/N enjoyed a quiet evening together, their conversation turned to their children’s futures. Y/N, ever the pragmatic one, voiced her concerns.

“Do you ever wonder, Marcus,” she began, her eyes filled with a mixture of hope and worry, “how our children will fare in the world? Our sons, particularly, are stepping into roles that will shape Rome’s future. I fear the weight of their legacy may be too much for them to bear.”

Marcus, who had always been a man of action rather than reflection, looked at his wife with a rare softness in his eyes. “I fear the same,” he admitted, his voice low. “But they are their own men now. I can only guide them, not live their lives for them.”

Y/N smiled, her hand finding his across the table. “And Aurelia? She is unlike any of us, and yet she is perhaps the most important of all.”

Marcus chuckled softly. “She has a power in her words that no sword can match. I believe she will do more for Rome than any general ever could.”

Weeks passed, and Aurelia’s name became a familiar one in the highest circles of Roman society. One evening, after a particularly well-received performance at the Senate House, Aurelia returned to the family home to find her brothers waiting for her.

“Well, well,” Cassius said with a teasing grin. “The poet returns from conquering the hearts of the Senate.”

Aurelia rolled her eyes but couldn’t hide her smile. “They don’t know what to make of me, but they’re intrigued. It’s a step forward.”

Tiberius, his brow furrowed in thought, placed a hand on her shoulder. “You’ve done more than step forward, Aurelia. You’ve made them listen. Do you realize how many people are talking about you?”

“I don’t want them to talk about me,” Aurelia said, her voice soft but firm. “I want them to hear the message in my words.”

Cassius gave her an appraising look. “You’ve always been the brave one, haven’t you?”

“Bravery has nothing to do with it,” Aurelia replied, her eyes meeting his with quiet intensity. “It’s about doing what’s right, even when it’s difficult.”

Tiberius nodded. “I think you’re right. Maybe there’s something to your vision of a different Rome—a Rome that isn’t built on conquest, but on understanding and strength in other forms.”

Marcus, who had overheard the conversation from the doorway, stepped into the room with a proud smile. “And what would you know of that, Tiberius?” he asked, his voice warm yet teasing.

Tiberius met his father’s gaze with newfound confidence. “I know that Rome cannot grow only through the sword. There must be other ways—ways that preserve the essence of our strength while also allowing for compassion and diplomacy.”

Marcus nodded slowly, impressed by his son’s resolve. “You have learned much, Tiberius. Perhaps the time will come when your role in Rome will be as important as any general’s.”

Cassius chuckled. “Don’t get too comfortable, Father. We still need you in the field. No one can fill your boots just yet.”

Marcus laughed heartily, the sound filling the room with warmth. “Perhaps not, Cassius. But there may come a day when it is you who steps into them.”

One evening, when the family gathered for dinner, the conversation turned to an unexpected subject. A letter had arrived that morning from a foreign delegation in Gaul, requesting Tiberius’ presence for an important negotiation regarding Rome’s borders.

“Father,” Tiberius began, looking up from his plate, “I’ve been invited to represent Rome at the negotiations. It’s a significant step for me.”

Marcus studied his son for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Finally, he spoke. “It is a dangerous path, Tiberius. The politics of Gaul are volatile. But I trust you. If you believe you are ready, then go.”

Tiberius’ eyes shone with a mixture of pride and fear. “I will, Father. I will make you proud.”

Aurelia, always the most thoughtful of the family, placed a hand on his. “You don’t have to prove anything, Tiberius. Just do what you know is right.”

As the family shared a quiet moment of reflection, Aurelia felt the weight of the changes around her. Cassius, Tiberius, and even their father were finding their own paths—paths that had once seemed unimaginable in the shadow of their military heritage. They were forging a new Rome, one that blended the strength of warriors with the wisdom of poets, engineers, and diplomats.

In the days that followed, Tiberius prepared for his journey to Gaul, while Aurelia continued to write and speak of peace. Marcus, ever the watchful father, took pride in the direction his children were taking, knowing that the empire was in capable hands—hands that understood the power of strength and the importance of compassion.

And so, as the seasons changed and the world continued to turn, the Acacius family stood at the crossroads of tradition and progress. Together, they carried the legacy of Rome forward, not with swords and shields alone, but with wisdom, courage, and the power of words.

[amateurvoltaire]

Listen to the post (trust me, it's a long one and I've done my best to read the whole thing out...):

Embroidery, Work, and Women in the 18th Century

One of my resolutions for 2025 was to learn embroidery. Why? Partly because my brain can’t stand still. It needs a dozen hobbies going at once just to keep from falling apart. Also, I like beautiful things. And small, careful stitches on cloth seem beautiful to me.

But more than that, embroidery has always been part of women’s lives. From Helen of Troy to Mary Queen of Scots and beyond, women have picked up the needle, sometimes in peace, sometimes in despair. It has been an art, a pastime, and a sentence.

So let’s talk about embroidery today. More precisely, embroidery in late 18th-century France. What it meant to the rich and the poor, and how it worked, strangely, as both a kind of cage and a kind of release for women of the time.

First of all,  before we start, you need to know that it was everywhere. Truly everywhere. In France, embroidery was a fashionable and expensive way to decorate clothes, furniture, and church vestments. The most elaborate designs showed flowers, landscapes, or scenes from myth, stitched in silk, gold and  silver. Garments like men’s waistcoats or women’s gowns were embroidered by hand, usually by professionals, and filled the wardrobes of the wealthy.

But just because the finished products were aimed at the elite did not mean embroidery itself was limited to them. Quite the opposite. Because the tools were simple  (a needle and some thread) the practice spread through all levels of society. It became, in many ways, the defining domestic craft for women.

Embroidery, or the Quiet Discipline of  the 18th-century Woman

The education of a French woman in the late 18th-century is well summed up by a line from Rousseau’s Émile. Describing the education of Sophie, Émile’s intended, he writes:

“The education of women should be relative to men. To please us, to be useful to us, to make themselves loved and honoured by us, to raise us when we are young, to care for us when we are grown, to advise us, to console us, to make our lives agreeable and sweet, these are the duties of women at all times, and what they should be taught from childhood.” (1)

I could be sarcastic about Rousseau all day, but I will not. This is not about him (2). What matters here is the idea, widely held in 18th-century France, that women’s education was meant to complement male reason with female charm. Rousseau valued obedience, delicacy, and virtue, and considered domestic work the most effective way to instil these traits. Something as thoroughly domestic as sewing or embroidery was seen as both moral instruction and quiet, necessary containment.

So embroidery became central to women’s education, regardless of class, although the reasons shifted depending on social rank. For bourgeois and aristocratic girls, needlework was seen as a form of moral training.

This was not mere theory. Girls’ finishing schools in Paris and provincial cities rigorously taught embroidery alongside catechism and musical instruments.

For upper-class women, it was also a social act. French society in the 18th and 19th centuries was deeply performative. Embroidery became a marker of bien séance (3), a way of displaying virtue while remaining present in social life. The sociability it enabled was no accident. By stitching in company, women carved out a space where they could speak freely, while appearing to live within the boundaries society had drawn for them.

An art form from mother to daughter

Have you ever tried sewing or embroidering from an antique pattern? Especially something from the 18th or 19th century. Even if you manage to find the right thread and cloth, reproducing these old designs can seem almost impossible. Why? Because most surviving patterns from that time are simply terrible. How do we know? Because some still exist.

The Lady’s Magazine (1770–1818) (4) was one of Britain’s most influential women’s periodicals of the late eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries. It offered a monthly blend of fiction, poetry, moral essays, fashion reports, biographies, recipes, and notably, embroidery patterns.

The embroidery patterns were usually published as detachable supplements or illustrated plates, intended to embellish clothing and accessories with the flowers and foliage popular in Georgian textile art.

Few of these patterns survive intact, precisely because they were detachable and meant for immediate use. Most were removed, damaged, or simply lost, making intact issues of the magazine incredibly rare. Yet, some do survive. But if you get your hands on one, you'll soon realise there's not much you can actually do with it.

These patterns weren't instructional in the modern sense. They had no step-by-step guides or even a basic materials list. They served more as visual templates, meant to be traced or adapted. But why? Why would editors of a women’s magazine produce such unhelpful patterns?

No, the reason isn’t that the pattern designers and engravers were probably men who disliked women.

The answer is simpler: these patterns weren't poorly designed at all. In fact, they were perfectly adequate for their time, precisely because everyone knew how to sew. The magazine correctly assumed every reader had a basic level of skill.

And yes, I mean every woman. Not just those who went to finishing schools.

For most families, embroidery was a fundamental part of mother-daughter relationships. Mothers taught daughters, grandmothers shared techniques and patterns. This wasn’t purely practical, it was also moral instruction. Embroidery taught patience, neatness, and submission, but also created intimate moments of maternal bonding and a way to preserve memories.

Sampler-making (marquoirs) was especially significant. Girls stitched alphabets, dates, names, or even short verses under the supervision of mothers, schoolmistresses or female adults they looked up to. These samplers served as both educational exercises and personal milestones, often kept or displayed proudly as part of a dowry. Embroidery thus became part of life’s rites of passage. It wasn’t just a useful skill or an idle pastime. It was heritage.

A  male-dominated industry

In Enlightenment imagery, embroidery often stood for feminine leisure and elegance. But it remained, in practice, a skilled and demanding trade linked to luxury consumption, ecclesiastical ornamentation, and court attire. And like most things involving money, it was dominated by men.

Charles-Germain de Saint-Aubin, embroiderer to Louis XVI, published L’Art du Brodeur in 1770. In it, he described a profession regulated by the Parisian guild of embroiderers (jurande des brodeurs). This guild upheld a strict hierarchy: apprentice, journeyman, master. An aspiring embroiderer began with a years-long apprenticeship under a master. Once completed, he could become a journeyman. To rise to the level of master, he had to produce a a masterpiece (chef-d’œuvre) judged by the guild’s existing members. If accepted, he joined their ranks.

The guild maintained control through rules on quality, materials, technique, and design. Workshops were inspected. Violations carried penalties. The guild also limited membership to avoid market saturation. It was a business like any other, and its rules were meant to protect those already inside.

The guild statutes from 1566 allowed a modest space for women. A girl could join the guild through apprenticeship and submit a chef-d’œuvre of her own. Once accepted, she could run a workshop, even if married to someone outside the trade. But this changed. By 1648, the rules had tightened. Only widows or daughters of masters could keep a place in the trade, and only if they remained unmarried. If they remarried outside the guild, they lost their rights. Any master employing them risked a thirty-livre fine.

In short, for most of the 18th century, a woman’s access to the profession depended heavily on her ties to men: her father, her husband, her deceased spouse.

Still, exclusion was never total. A 1723 record shows 307 embroidery masters in Paris, alongside 65 widows who also held the title. A small number of girls were accepted as apprentices. The path was narrow. But it existed.

There was also another path

While the legal one narrowed, the informal one widened, and women took it. The guild’s grip was strong, but demand was stronger. A great deal of embroidery was done outside official structures, and much of that work was carried out by women. Not just isolated housewives earning a few coins in the evening, but networks operating on a larger scale.

In 1750, the police raided embroidery workshops in the faubourg Saint-Antoine (5), a district often outside guild jurisdiction. Among those charged was Louise Pineau, known as veuve Duport. She ran an illegal operation of no fewer than twenty-eight frames and even maintained what authorities called an “embroidery academy.”

But what enraged the guild most was not her scale. It was her success. One of the king’s own embroiderers, Louis-Jacques Balzac, had subcontracted to her a commission for the Dauphin’s ceremonial vest. Her work was so fine, it was nearly indistinguishable from that of the official guild. The same masters who condemned her were secretly hiring her.

This was not an isolated case. The guild explicitly banned subcontracting beyond a master’s own workshop, especially for gold and silver work. But bankruptcy records reveal widespread, illegal subcontracting to women who worked from home. They were paid by the piece. Everything was tracked. Even the gold thread was weighed before and after to prevent theft.

Everyone knew this was happening. But,  as long as it stayed quiet, it was tolerated.

The Path to Female Entrepreneurship

By the 1770s, women were no longer just running hidden workshops. Some began to appear in public as business owners in their own right. One of them was Madame Neuville, later known as veuve Neuville.

She presented herself as a merchant of gold and silver embroidery. Her clients were elite men: military officers, foreign envoys, members of the tribunal du point d’honneur. Her work included ceremonial insignia, ecclesiastical ornament, and embroidered garments worn for status, not comfort.

Neuville ran a dual operation. She had a workshop with salaried staff, but also subcontracted a significant amount of work. Her records show both men and women in her employ, including several widows of guild members. But the payroll tells a familiar story: women were paid nearly half what men earned per hour, even when they did the same work.

Conditions in her workshop were intense. In 1772, detailed logs show the arrival times, total hours worked, and instances of night shifts. The official working day ran from six in the morning to eight at night. But for the women, the hours were often longer, more irregular, and extended into the early morning during periods of high demand.

It was hard, exhausting work for not much money.

One regular worker’s case stands out. In June 1772, over 18 days and three night shifts, she earned 23 livres, 6 sous, and 8 deniers. That was roughly equivalent to what a male day labourer might make in the same period. The sum was modest, but for an unmarried woman, it offered a rare degree of independence. In most other sectors open to them, the chances were worse (7).

Female Labour at the  End of the Ancien Régime

One common misunderstanding about women’s lives in eighteenth-century France is the assumption that they did not work. Lower-class women, before, during, and after the Revolution, did not spend their days serenely raising children and keeping house. Nor were they driven by any self-conscious desire to assert economic independence. They worked because they had no choice.

The issue was never their access to the labour market, but how their labour was valued. Madame Neuville’s pay structure, where women were paid significantly less than men for the same work, was not an exploitative anomaly. It was standard practice. The value of women’s labour was systematically diminished through wage discrimination, occupational segregation, and social invisibility. Even when women’s work was essential to household survival or trade production, it was often treated as supplementary, even incidental.

By the final decades of the Ancien Régime, Paris had at least five all-female guilds, which indicates that women’s participation in economic life was not hidden. It simply wasn’t valued on the same terms as men’s.

In 1776, as part of his broader attempt to modernise the economy, the king’s prime minister, Turgot (7) moved to abolish the guild system. He argued that guilds restricted economic liberty and disproportionately harmed women and their freedom to work. While his reforms failed and guilds were reinstated, his successor included a clause forbidding sex-based discrimination.

The measure had contradictory consequences. It removed formal barriers preventing women from entering male-dominated trades, but it also dismantled the institutional protections on which women’s guilds had relied. In practice, this left women exposed. The protections that had once secured a space for them in the labour market were gone, and male competitors increasingly pushed them aside.

By 1789, as France stood on the edge of revolution, the cahiers de doléances (8) included appeals from women, needleworkers, flower sellers, and others, demanding the reinstatement of their guilds and the exclusive right to their métiers. These were not framed in terms of abstract rights, but in terms of survival and human dignity.

Freedom, But at What Price

The Revolution brought two major changes to the embroidery trade: one economic, the other moral.

Economically, the abolition of the guilds in 1791 under the Le Chapelier Law removed the protections once offered by the embroiderers’ guild. In theory, this made it easier for women to enter the profession. But at the same time as trades were opened more widely, the Revolution also raised a deeper question: should women even have a place in the economic order?

Views ranged from one extreme to the other. On one end, some argued that women should be full participants in work and public life. On the other, many believed they should be confined to the domestic sphere. Most people fell somewhere in between.

Nicolas de Condorcet (9) stood firmly on the side of equality. He called for women to have the same civil and political rights as men, including access to education, participation in public affairs, and the ability to support themselves. In a 1794 letter to his daughter, he urged her to learn a trade so she might “support herself without serving a stranger,” and escape the dependence that, in his view, undermined both dignity and freedom. For Condorcet , the right to work was bound up with the right to self-rule.

Others saw things differently. Pierre-Louis Roederer (10) argued that civil society was built on protecting women from labour, which he considered a burden meant for men. In his eyes, women were destined for domestic life and motherhood. Giving them rights in the economic sphere, he warned, would only unsettle the social order and defy nature.

Roederer’s vision won out. In rhetoric and policy, women were increasingly pushed back into the household.

But rhetoric is one thing, reality another. Women did not disappear from the labour market. They remained central to the Parisian garment trades. Though the guilds were gone, production methods stayed largely the same.

What truly affected embroidery was not ideology, but emigration. Embroidery was a luxury trade, tied to noble wardrobes. As the aristocracy fled, lost their titles, or were imprisoned, demand collapsed. On top of that, ornate fashion came to be seen as anti-revolutionary. The heavy silks and gold thread of the ancien régime gave way to plain whitework.

This collapse in demand hit women hardest. Embroidery and other luxury trades faced mass unemployment. Women scrambled for short-term, piecework contracts, often under male employers. The result was a growing supply of cheap, unprotected female labour. The old belief that women’s work was worth less only deepened.

The Revolutionary government made some effort to respond. The Convention (11) awarded state sewing contracts, mainly for army supplies, and local sections distributed work to seamstresses, prioritising families of enlisted soldiers. For a brief time, some Parisian women had stable, paid employment.

But this didn’t last. By 1795, under the Directory (12), the state withdrew. Private contractors took over. Women’s protests about exploitation were ignored.

What Comes Next?

Embroidery meant many things. It was work, it was teaching, it was discipline. It was done by women who stitched under orders, for money, for their daughters, or simply to stay sane. We’ve followed the needle through eighteenth-century classrooms and parlours, through guilds and illegal workshops, from gold thread to government contracts. Always the same art. Always under different constraints. It was art, labour, education, survival. Sometimes resistance. Often just what had to be done.

Which brings me to what I want to do next.

I’m starting a project: one hundred embroidered portraits of figures from late eighteenth- and nineteenth-century France. A hundred lives. A hundred threads in the fabric of a brutal, brilliant, collapsing world. The portraits won’t be stitched by hand but by machine. I’m a product of the twenty-first century. I like tools. I like toys. I like the meeting point of industry and art.

For each person, I’ll try to reconstruct, as faithfully as possible, who they were, what they did, and what they meant to the world around them.

This isn’t a Wikipedia entry. I’m not making a record. I’m making a story, a kind of chronicle of sorts. The aim is to give something back: their humanity, their contradictions, their texture. To remind us that they were, in fact, people, flawed, vivid, complex, even if they lived and died more than two centuries ago. No heroes. No villains. Just facts, and what can be seen clearly when set in the context of their own time.

The first will be Camille Desmoulins. Because on the 12th of  July 1789, it was he who he climbed onto a table at the Café de Foy (13)  and cried out to the crowd. And from that moment, something irreversible began.

I hope you’ll come with me.

Notes

(1) The original French text: “L’éducation des femmes doit être relative aux hommes. Leur tâche est de nous plaire, de nous être utiles, de nous faire aimer et nous estimer, de nous élever quand nous sommes jeunes, de nous soigner quand nous sommes grands, de nous conseiller, de nous consoler, de rendre notre vie agréable et douce. Voilà les devoirs des femmes dans tous les temps, et ce qu’on doit leur apprendre dès leur enfance.” (Émile, Livre V; original edition 1762).

This passage appears in Book V of Émile, ou De l’éducation, Rousseau’s educational treatise structured as a philosophical novel. The first four books follow the development of an ideal male child, Émile, from infancy to adulthood, shaped according to natural principles. Only in the final book does Rousseau turn to the question of women’s education, in the person of Sophie, Émile’s future wife , and the contrast is stark. Whereas Émile is trained for autonomy, reason, and citizenship, Sophie is shaped entirely in relation to male needs. In effect, Book V naturalises patriarchal domesticity under the guise of Enlightenment pedagogy.

(2)…And because I could rant for pages about him: it’s no accident I’m Amateur Voltaire and not Amateur Rousseau.

(3) Bien séance: A term referring to proper behaviour, decorum, and socially sanctioned conduct, particularly in elite society.

(4) The Lady’s Magazine (1770–1818) was a British publication, but French women’s magazines such as Le Journal des Dames et des Modes (1797–1839) and its short-lived predecessor Cabinet des Modes ou les Modes Nouvelles (1785–1786) also featured embroidery as part of fashionable culture, especially as it related to dress, accessories, and decorative refinement.

(5) Faubourg Saint-Antoine: A historically working-class district on the eastern edge of Paris, known for its artisanal workshops

(6) Turgot: Anne Robert Jacques Turgot (1727–1781), economist and reformist minister under Louis XVI. As intendant of Limoges, he wrote extensively on rural labour and women’s economic roles; as Controller-General, he attempted liberal economic reforms that failed politically but remain ideologically significant.

(7) And yes, I do mean worse. To the despair of anglophone observers like Thomas and Abigail Jefferson, French lower-class women worked. They worked in fields. They hauled water and firewood. They laboured in ways English gentry wives would never imagine. Working in an embroidery workshop was brutal and underpaid — but it wasn’t ploughing in the mud while pregnant.

(8) Cahiers de doléances: Literally “notebooks of grievances.” These were lists of complaints and demands drafted in 1789 by each of the three estates (clergy, nobility, and commoners) in the lead-up to the Estates-General.

(9) Nicolas de Condorcet: Philosopher, mathematician, and, agruably,  early feminist. Author of Sur l’admission des femmes au droit de cité (1790), in which he argues that excluding women from citizenship is a contradiction of revolutionary principles.

(10) Pierre-Louis Roederer: Liberal publicist, member of the National Assembly, but very much against women’s right to work and be educated.

(11) The Convention: The National Convention was the revolutionary government during the Revolution.

(12) The Directory: The post-Terror regime (1795–1799), marked by thermidorian backlash, economic liberalism, and sharp limitations on popular political participation.

(13) Café de Foy: A famous café near the Palais-Royal, known for its revolutionary crowds. Camille Desmoulins delivered his famous call to arms here on 12 July 1789, reportedly standing on a table, pistols in hand.

Sources:

Brian, Isabelle. "La trace de l’ouvrage: les brodeuses dans les archives parisiennes." Bulletin de l’Association des historiens modernistes des universités françaises, no. 43, 2023. DOI: 10.4000/bahmuf.302.

Coffin, Judith G. The Politics of Women’s Work: The Paris Garment Trades, 1750–1915. Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1996.

Fayolle, Caroline. "Le sens de l’aiguille. Travaux domestiques, genre et citoyenneté (1789–1799)." Cahiers du Genre, no. 53, 2012.

Lilti, Antoine. The World of the Salons: Sociability and Worldliness in Eighteenth-Century Paris. Translated by Lydia G. Cochrane. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2015.

Offen, Karen. The Woman Question in France, 1400–1870. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2017 - Chapter 6

Saint-Aubin, Charles-Germain de. L’Art du brodeur. Paris: Saillant & Nyon; Desaint, 1770. Source: gallica.bnf.fr / Bibliothèque nationale de France.

Thillay, Alain. "La liberté du travail au faubourg Saint-Antoine à l’épreuve des saisies des jurandes parisiennes (1642–1778)." Revue d’histoire moderne et contemporaine, vol. 44, no. 4, 1997, pp. 634–649. DOI: 10.3406/rhmc.1997.1890.

[rascosmicwisdom]

Sidereal Astrology: Indicators of a Yogi

The term Yoga comes from the Sanskrit word "yuj" meaning to yoke or unite; referring to the mind, body, and spirit. To me yoga is represented through the planet Venus as it represents union.

Venus is known for creating harmony, but it takes quite the discipline to to make sure things stay balanced. This is why Venus and Mars exists on the same axis because Venus requires strategy to maintain order. When looking to our birth charts to understand Venus we also must understand Mars as they are a union.

Mars is where our individuality stands out. Venus is the inner workings of what keeps us connected to this individuality.

Mars represents the methods that help us create harmony and Venus maintains the balance.

Heres an example:

Someone with Mars in Capricorn could indicate them being methodical and playing the long game. It takes them a while to build a system and the journey could be challenging because everything doesn't fall together easily, but once they get their structure built it's extremely hard to come down; a pro & con. Mars being in Saturn's domain means that it works with the qualities and significations of Saturn. This can look like methods of being distant (physically and/or emotionally) meditation, prayer, studying, etc.

To add, let's say Venus is in Aries. Operating in Mars domain means that maintaining balance is something that likely requires physical and/or mental exertion of energy. Since Mars is exalted (Capricorn), this level of exertion is more controlled/tamed. This can look like one practicing yoga, something that maintains harmony of the mind, body, and spirit. For Venus to maintain this practice, it's needs Mars discipline & strategy.

Extending this to individuality(Mars) + maintaining that individuality(Venus)

Venus in Aries has a desire to keep the spirit alive and well nourished. This can look like engaging in self-discovery through curiosity or just being drawn to the mysteries of life. Therefore, the foundation that Venus builds shows us through Mars in Capricorn through intentional action, slow motion, a unique demeanor, and direction in life.

I want to give some indicators for what someone being a yogi /yogini can look like based on my observations.

A Yogi/Yogini is someone who walks the eternal path on nonduality, aka union. This makes one a seeker of truth. Someone who sees themselves in everything and everything in themselves. The Creator & Creation.

Venus= Yoga/Yogis/Yoginis

● Venus would need the support of Saturn(deep contemplation), Jupiter(ritual & Guru), and Mars (discipline & routine)

● Venus in signs of Cancer, Scorpio, Pisces , with the Lord being in aspect to Jupiter, Mars, Saturn, or Moon

Ex. Venus in Pisces, Lord of Venus is Jupiter, therefore Jupiter having an aspect to Mars or Moon

● Venus being Lord of 1st /10th in aspect to Saturn & Mars

● 1st/10th house ruler in aspect to Venus with aspects/support from Saturn

● Venus aspecting 7th or 10th house

● Venus ruling 9th, occupying 9th, or aspecting 9th with aspects of Jupiter

● Virgo and Aquarius asc/moon people with aspects of Jupiter and Venus

[gigidragonbbxxx]

Favorite Placebos

What are placebos in the context of the Law of Assumption?

Placebos are made up rules or actions that a master manifester assigns meaning to which allows them to affirm and persist in a particular belief even when they are not actively saturating

essentially, because we are the operant power of our realities, we can decide what anything means.

a famous example is Angel Numbers! 111 or 777 and people will assign a meaning to it. But there is no concrete source on what every angel number means, we just give our own interpretation. I have no longer assigned different meanings to individual angel numbers, if I see one I simply say "Oh 333? I'm getting everything I want."

The trick is not to make your placebos limits. Let me repeat that.

DO NOT MAKE PLACEBOS YOUR LIMIT.

Do not fall all over the place if you wanna see 333 and never see it. Placebos are meant to be fun and harmless and an aid/supplement to manifestation.

Onto my favs!

Every time I drink water, I get prettier

I lose belly fat every time I work out

For every penny I spend, a dollar is returned to me

I've gotten to the point where I assign a positive meaning to everything (this is the level of ALWAYS THINKING IN YOUR FAVOR).

I will literally see the weather and say "Oh it's raining? I'm getting what i want."

Coffee spills? Everything works out for me. Misplaced a makeup product? It just means I'm too pretty. Accidentally trip? You're always loved. Dishes need washing? Every dish washed is a wish fulfilled.

This is all an example of the principle and practice of Saturation. The consistency and discipline required to assign positive meanings to everything, even in the face of something seemingly disastrous is the exact frequency of PERSISTING that every damn loass coach preaches about.

Make your own. Make them silly. Make them serious. I don't care, just MAKE THEM. Practice flipping your thoughts!

Pro Tip: it's just like habit stacking, you're getting 2 things outta 1 action. Tie it to stuff you do regularly. Brushing teeth, chores, etc. Make it easy, do not make things hard or complicated.

Have fun. and comment/add your own personal fav placebos! I'll be making a masterlist soon

xx, gigi

[mysteryshoptls]

Divus Crewel Shared Lines

Lesson Start 1: Time for training.

Lesson Start 2: Drill this into your skulls.

Lesson Start 3: We're starting now, pups.

Lesson Over 1: Stay! That's all for today.

Lesson Over 2: Next time, we'll do behavioral training.

Lesson Over 3: Good boy! Don't forget what you've learned.

Exam 1: Stay. You may run around once the test begins.

Exam 2: So, you're ready to go, then?

Exam 3: Show me the fruits of your training.

Exam Win 1: Well done! Not bad at all.

Exam Win 2: Good boy! Seems you've been studying up.

Exam Lose 1: You need another round of discipline, I see...

Exam Lose 2: Good results aren't borne from impatience.

Level Up 1: This feels... good.

Level Up 2 / Buddy Level Up: It's crucial to be capable of self-improvement.

Level Up 3: Did you truly think I would consider this to be satisfying enough?

Level Max: Your loyalty far surpasses the rest of the pups. Good boy, I'll continue to reward your trust in me well.

Vignette Level Up: Have you finished prepping for the quiz already? Stop fooling around and go study. If the students under my charge were to fail their classes, I would be a disgrace of a professor.

Spell Level Up: Those mangy mutts will, someway or another, try to bite the hand that feeds them. As their trainer, I must also continue to hone my magical abilities so I can thoroughly drill into them where they fall in the pecking order.

Friendship Level Up: Have you come to ask me questions again? Your eagerness to learn is a good trait. We professors have an obligation to help resolve our students’ quandaries, after all. You should take full advantage of my knowledge to help you improve yourself, pup.

Friendship Level Max: You strive to understand that which you do not understand, and you have the resolve to ask questions without shirking away… …A pup like you is truly worth having as a student. I look forward to seeing your future prospects.

Uncapped: As your professors, we must never neglect our own self-improvement. That is our duty as those who strive to instruct and guide all you pups.

Groovification: Heh. Looks as though I've improved yet again... As both an instructor and a mage.

Lesson Select 1: I think I'll take some time to enjoy being a carefree student for the first time in a while. I look forward to attending the other professors' stellar lectures.

Lesson Select 2: That's right, this is how it felt waiting for class to begin. I'd completely forgotten.

Lesson Select 3: This is a great opportunity. I'll take this chance to show all you misbehaving students how its done.

Lesson Start: Let's see what you're capable of.

Lesson Finish: That was a very insightful lecture. There's much to learn each day.

Battle Start: A litter of puppies, I see. My heart leaps with joy.

Battle Won: The most important things for education are treats and discipline.

[failbettergames]

Estival: The Sixth Coil

The Tiger Keeper rises to his hind legs. "London!" He is bellowing now, gold eyes alight with zeal. "The Sixth Coil is opening at last!”

Summer of 1899 has come around again, and with it, Estival:  a time of celebration, intrigue, and, historically, disaster. This year, something stirs beneath the Labyrinth of Tigers, and London is awash with striped and toothy visitors. 

Closed to all visitors since the Fall, the Sixth Coil of the Labyrinth is opening at last – and the Court of the Wakeful Eye is holding a grand tournament to celebrate the occasion. The Coilheart Games will soon commence!

Delegations will soon arrive from all across the Neath: the tomb-colonies, the Khanate, the Wakeful Eye itself. Lend your support to your favoured competitors in events that span disciplines physical and mental. Throw your own hat into the ring, and compete for a share of the riches of the Sixth Coil. Investigate the visiting delegations, and the mysteries stirring deep in the Labyrinth. And when the Games are over, the Sixth Coil will open at long, long last.

What is Estival?

The Sixth Coil is Fallen London's summer Estival for 2024, beginning on the 1st of August. It's a free, limited-time mass-participation event, open to players of all levels.

Our annual summer festival is different to all others in Fallen London; it changes every year, both mechanically and in theme. In previous years we’ve excavated holes all over London (unlocking new activities), raised a Museum which became a permanent location in the city, and warred with Starved men from the Roof.

We expect Estival to last around two weeks, with new activities and mysteries opening up as time passes. It'll remain open for a few days after its conclusion for you to catch up and pick up any last rewards. 

In previous years, your participation has affected the pacing of the event. This year, however, your efforts will determine not when events progress, but how: the winners of each of the Games' four disciplines will be determined by your actions. Offer your allies chess tips from the Boatman. Test their scientific hypotheses in your lab. Defeat their nightmares, so they might fight unimpeded. And – perhaps most dangerously of all – influence the fickle attentions of the Captivating Princess. It is all to play for.

As with previous summer events, we will eventually bring the memory of this one to the Waswood, to allow you to revisit the story and obtain some (but not all) of the event's items, should you miss it.

New Items and Equipment

Items from previous summers will be available again, alongside six new items of equipment to collect. These can be purchased with Estival Tokens, the currency of our summer events. You'll receive 30 Estival Tokens for free this year, and more can be purchased for Fate. As always, you will be able to use any Estival Tokens left over from previous years.

In addition, owners of the Winking Gemstone Ring and the Strangling WIllow Ring – both items that were recently moved to the Adornment slot – will be able to swap them for new Gloves that offer the same bonuses, if they wish.

Finally, there'll be several unique qualities and items of equipment that can be earned by participating in this year's Estival storyline.

We hope you enjoy the Coilheart Games, and the opening of the Sixth Coil! As always, this is an experiment in finding new ways to surprise and delight you. We hope that among the action, events, intrigues and competition, there will be something for everybody to enjoy.

[multidimensionalguidance]

Anuradha - The Bridge To All Paths Pt.1

Services

The symbolism of Anuradha is the deer, an archway, a lotus, and a staff stick. I'll be doing a series of observations for this nakshatra that lays within 3'20 degrees to 16'40 in Scorpio. It is ruled by Saturn and its traditional ruler Mars crating a combination of a disciplined, focused, yet gentle mastermind.

There are parts of the lotus flower that reaches down to the ground in the mud water, where it gets all its nutrients from, and it functions as a sort of plumbing system working made by nature. Anuradha native learns very early on how to alchemize and thrive in difficult environments. The other symbolism of this nakshatra is the staff, which is a mystical weapon that wields in magic powers to destroy the obstacle in front of it. There are many super hero or super villan themes within this nakshatra as well, so the magical themes are heavily present.

Anuradha is also associated to a very famous bird who didn't gain notoriety just for its sounds and songs, but its meanings. In Old English, “nightingale” translates to “night singer. It has appeared in many thousands of poems from Homer to the twentieth century, and even in ancient times it acquired an almost formulaic meaning as the bird of spring, of night, and of mourning.

Nightingales are also often associated with the concept of love, particularly romantic love. This connection can be traced back to the behavior of male nightingales during mating season. When attempting to court a female, a male nightingale will sing intricate songs throughout the night, making their presence known and winning the heart of their desired mate.

Kristin Hannah author of "The Nightingales" has her Moon in Anuradha. A critically acclaimed book for its powerful story and message of violence, love, resistance, and alliances.

We also have to recall through the story of Radha and her "impossible" love. Anuradha individuals tend to run into someone they fall deeply in love with, become devoted to them, but lose the connection and has a hard time moving on from it even after finding the "perfect" partner. This plays out the most in a man's chart, and in women they tend to be the "one that got away". Although, it could of course happen either way regardless of gender.

Anuradha natives might run pretty often into certain people and quickly develop a deep fixations with them, hence why they sometimes end up with a partner/spouse who is overprotective and a bit neurotic. This usually occurs when that powerful sense of devotion is placed upon someone else in a codependent way. They are also the ones who want to listen and resolve problems of others because they feel to a core level that the entire world is their friend.

It is normal for these natives to lose friends and connections along their way, but at the end their close circle and alliances become essential to their development. Saturn ruling this nakshatra gives it enough seriousness and discipline to understand that quality is truly more important than quantity, so having small networking groups is also common.

They seek those who lay behind the shadows and can see the bigger picture, hence why they are often the left hand of Jyestha natives who play the role of the one who obtains it all by sacrificing it all, but at some point one or the other develops an unhealthy attachment that leads to a major karmic point for both.

Their attraction is almost fated because they are yoni consorts after all. If they are able to mutually filtrate all their darkness, they can become a power couple.

It is quite common to see super heroes who rely on a group in order to fight against chaos have Anuradha placements. There is a strong desire to unite above all and bring fruits later on within this nakshatra.

In general, the lighter side of this nakshatra are beautiful, worth knowing, and exploring as well. It tells us the importance of learning to control our own shadow who wishes to use alliances for self gain, and rather use it allow others to connect the collective harmoniously.

In the next part of this nakshatra I will exploring the darker aspects. Continue to Part 2!

[headlesssamurai]

//patriotic_cassy/

[httpvomitello]

hello can you do Oliver wood x y/n enemies to lovers but it's when they battle the slyterhins but before they play y/n and Oliver had an argument and then Oliver gets mad at draco for almost hitting y/n but y/n kisses him to make him feel better after the game thank you 🙏🏻

Ooh, i love it! Thanks for the request ~ ♡

Game of Hearts *⁠.⁠✧

Summary: Quidditch had always been intense. It was fast, brutal, and required a level of discipline that only Oliver Wood seemed to fully understand. Unfortunately for him, you weren’t the kind of person to take orders without questioning everything. Which was exactly why the Gryffindor locker room was on fire before the match against Slytherin.

oliver wood x f!reader

WARNINGS: enemies to love, Harry didn't participate in Quidditch yet. Draco being Draco.

"You’re pushing us too hard, Wood!" you snapped, standing toe-to-toe with the Captain as the rest of the team awkwardly tried to look anywhere but at the brewing fight.

Oliver ran a hand through his already-messy hair, exhaling sharply. "We don’t have time to go easy, (Y/L/N). Slytherin plays dirty. If we’re not at our best, they’ll run us into the ground—"

"You mean you will," you shot back. "You’ve been barking orders at us like we’re training for the bloody World Cup! We’re exhausted, Oliver—"

"We need to be ready!" he growled. "Or do you want to lose?"

You scoffed. "No, but I also don’t want to die on the pitch!"

Oliver clenched his jaw, looking about two seconds away from losing his mind.

"Just do your job, (Y/N)," he finally muttered. “And I will do mine.”

You glared at him.

Fine.

You’d do your job.

And you’d win this damn game despite him.

The match was brutal.

The Slytherins weren’t playing—they were attacking. Bludgers were flying at lethal speeds, and the referee might as well have been asleep with the number of fouls he was ignoring.

You were neck and neck with Montague, fighting for the Quaffle when—

A blur of green and silver came barreling toward you.

Draco Malfoy.

You barely had time to register it before—

BAM.

The impact knocked the wind out of you. You barely kept your grip on the broom, spinning wildly as your vision blurred.

Then, out of nowhere—

Strong hands caught you.

Your broom steadied, and suddenly, you were pressed against something solid.

You blinked up into the furious face of Oliver Wood.

His grip on you was iron-tight, his breathing heavy, and his eyes—normally filled with Quidditch-obsessed determination—were blazing with something else entirely.

His gaze snapped to Malfoy, who was hovering nearby with a smirk. "Oops," Draco drawled, not even pretending to be sorry. "Didn’t see her there."

That was it.

Oliver saw red.

Before you could stop him, he lunged.

"YOU BLOODY CHEATING—"

His fist collided with Malfoy’s face before the little snake had a chance to react. The crack echoed through the stadium, and Draco let out a very undignified yelp as he nearly toppled off his broom.

Gasps rippled through the crowd.

The Slytherins screamed.

The Gryffindors cheered.

Oliver was fuming, chest rising and falling rapidly as he flexed his fist.

You just stared.

"What the hell was that?!" you hissed, half-impressed, half-exasperated as the referee lost his mind* on the sidelines.

Oliver ignored you, his eyes still locked on Malfoy "You don’t touch her, Malfoy."

Draco groaned, clutching his bleeding nose. "You’re insane—"

"Say that again and I’ll break your other nostril," Oliver growled.

Merlin, he was serious.

The ref’s whistle blew, and before the game could completely devolve into an all-out brawl, the match was called off.

Gryffindor won.

But Oliver didn’t seem to care.

His fists were still clenched, his whole body vibrating with rage as you pulled him away from the scene.

Dragging him behind the stands, you whirled on him. "You punched Draco Malfoy!"

Oliver scowled. "He deserved it."

You groaned, running a hand through your hair. "You’re mad."

"He hurt you."

You blinked.

That... caught you off guard.

His voice was rough with emotion, his hands still shaking slightly as he looked at you.

You realized, then, that he wasn’t just angry. He was worried.

And before you could think—before you could question why your heart was racing so fast—you grabbed the front of his jersey and kissed him.

It was supposed to be quick. Just something to shut him up.

But Oliver froze. Then—his hands found your waist, and he pulled you closer, kissing you back like he’d been waiting for this moment.

It was heated. Messy. Desperate.

By the time you pulled away, breathless, Oliver was staring at you like he wasn’t entirely sure what just happened.

"What—" he started.

You smirked. "You looked like you needed that."

His lips twitched. "You are infuriating."

"Yeah, well," you shrugged, "you make it easy."

He huffed, rubbing his bruised knuckles before muttering—

"You are the reason I’m going to detention for a month."

You grinned.

"Totally worth it, though.”

[movingthisblogcelestialtarot11]

Common Cards for Healing in Tarot 🌴🌺

Hi friends! Today we’re looking at different cards you can receive in tarot when it comes to healing + what they mean. As the pisces season wraps up into Aries, I thought this would be suitable!🌹 please like, comment, and reblog to your hearts content! 💗

8 of cups 💨- When tarot drops this absolute banger it’s an indication of leaving or walking away from something we once idolized, or put on a pedestal. It involves discipline, seeing the truth, and grief is associated with this card. Mourning the current circumstances but knowing a better future awaits. It hurts since it’s something we once cared about. Known as the phrase, “grief is love in a heavy coat.”

Judgement 💫- The card of truth despite the ego. A card of tumultuous shifts and changes all leading the reader towards themselves. Something unavoidable, and undeniable. Whatever the reader has been running from will eventually catch up to them. It’s time to shine the light onto what has been hidden. Associated with third eye openings and upgrades. Usually the perception of self and the circumstance shifts heavily.

3 of swords reversed 👻- Releasing the ex, but not always is it related to a person. Releasing baggage in a situation or circumstance, finding inner truth and salvation, resting. Expressing emotional pain with unconditional acceptance and clarity. Journaling frees the mind. Releasing mental control of a situation, because if its out of our hands it deserves to be out of our minds.

The Hermit 🌟- Going on an inner journey to heal and recover. Associated with heavy thinking into the past, being analytical of one self, digging deeper to find out an emotional truth. Being reserved to protect one’s energy and self. Social media breaks and disconnect. Coming out with awareness and understanding that one did not have before.

5 of pentacles reversed 💅🏻- Finding safety and security, repairing situations or finding refuge. Support and protection is offered, and the person feels comforted. Release of heavy baggage and grief. The grief is easier to accept and put down now.

2 of cups 🍵- Therapy and opening up about the past in ways the person may not have done before. Confiding in someone who they are learning to trust. Trying to find themselves in therapy, having a soundboard. If not therapy, meeting like minded people who sees the reader and understands them deeply. Feels safe, trusting, and free.

Queen of cups ☕️- Knowing your emotional truth, having better boundaries this time, and leveling up. Emotional abundance, security and feels at peace with what they created internally.

4 of swords ✨- Mental rest, healing and peace. Meditation to find ease. Trusting the path. Listening to intuition. Taking breaks to reconnect with self. Journaling and brain dumping. Breathing out and feeling calm.

6 of swords 🌹- Emotional abundance, moving on from the past. Moving towards a better future. Releasing stuck or stagnant energy. Transitioning from something painful to the light. Seeing the way out.

The Sun ☀️- Happiness, joy, clarity. Comfort and peace. Feeling carefree and safe to be oneself. Lots of laughter and meaningful moments. Truly connect to oneself.

10 of swords 🗡️- Complete stop, ending of a cycle or circumstance. Usually a lot of guilt or regret is followed by this card, and exhaustion. Mourning over how something went or the choices that were made. Mental unease, overthinking and overwhelming thoughts.

The World 🌴- At one with the universe. Connected to mass consciousness. Moves with awareness and presence, and feels fulfilled inside and out. The ending and beginning of a chapter. New experiences await.

The Tower 🌟- The end of something shaky. Shaky relationship, friendship, circumstance. The falling down to rebuild stronger and better. Now, better choices can be made. There’s room for awareness and improvement.

Death ⌛️- The end of a painful cycle and into the new. Doubts are still present and anxieties. Slowly, the reader will find themselves able to understand those fears and work through them. This card is felt very strongly in a spiritual sense. The endings ripple internally, as it’s not just the death of a circumstance but the ego.

The Star 💨- After the Death comes The Star. Reborn, rebirth, transformation. The hope after all was lost, or what one thought was the case. Reinventing oneself, new patterns, new beliefs, planning manifestations. Planting seeds of success.

Thats all I have for you friends! Enjoy and feel free to like comment and reblog 🌟❤️ Its always appreciated! Your support means a lot to me.

Paid Readings 🍵💫

[girlietips]

Everyone talks about leveling up and healing, but what comes after that?

I feel like I'm in a really good place right now. I've worked through my emotional wounds, I no longer attract toxic people, and I'm focused on making better choices to improve my life.

I've moved past the drama, the gossip, and the unhealthy relationships, and I'm genuinely happy about that. I have no desire to go back to any of that. But at the same time, life feels too calm.

In the past, it was easy to connect with people around me—whether it was bonding over shared dislikes, mutual crushes on unavailable people, or similar family struggles. But now, all of that feels shallow and trivial. If I don’t like someone, I just avoid them. There’s nothing to really talk about or bond over anymore.

What I’m really wondering is how to keep that sense of wonder and excitement from my younger years alive—the sense that everything felt fresh, new, and thrilling.

I’ve outgrown a lot of the chaos, but now I’m left with the challenge of keeping life exciting without falling back into old habits. And honestly, I’m not sure how to do that.

This is a really important question and one I don’t think gets talked about enough. Often time when we begin to remove all the toxicity out of our life we feel as though there is a hole in our life. Or the lack of excitement and connection.

One thing I’ve noticed a lot in my own healing journey is that I had become almost addicted to drama because for my whole life I made a lot of my connections and bonds with people by complaining about crummy situations. That can also make it especially difficult for when you are trying to leave that side of you behind because the people who are close to you might try and pull that side out of you. While I do think cutting people out is a step to healing (not one that is particularly easy) it is important to understand you can’t cut everyone out. There are going to be some people that will bring the drama side of you out that you can’t avoid. But I don’t necessarily think gossip and communicating in that way is necessary bad I think you need to be really honest with yourself when it turns into something ugly. You can always tell people when a simple gossip or blowing off steam turns into something nasty you don’t want to be apart of.

In my opinion the feeling of life being “too” calm can mean one of two things.

You aren’t healed to the point that peace is appealing. This is very real and I notice it especially when I am comparing lifestyles with others. People will call you boring or stuck up because you like to keep your life free of stress and are very disciplined. Even your old self in the back of your brain might be saying “ew I just study and work and haven’t even had any new relationship drama. I am so boring”. I think when these thoughts come into your head you should remind yourself on how exactly it felt when you were “more fun” because yeah it was exciting when I was talking to a bunch of toxic guys, never did my homework, and didn’t care how I treated my body. But was that true happiness? No! it was just adrenaline and too much of that can leave you feeling fried and anxious.

You are not giving yourself fun things to do and talk about with others. If you are just going to school/work and then coming home and you aren’t participating in any hobbies that make you feel fulfilled you are going to have no fun and excitement throughout your day. You can keep your sense of wonder and excitement without slipping into toxic habits and situations!!!! Do something fun with your friends, take a class, learn a new art form, go on that trip you deserve all the excitement because you worked hard for your peace!!

I hope I answered your question. I think it’s a really important topic that I have discussed with my therapist on multiple occasions. Understanding the difference between excitement and adrenaline will help you understand what is worthwhile. Also if you have friends that the only conversation they can have is about drama they have there own things they need to workout and you shouldn’t let them bring you down.

Xoxo 💕💕

[cherrykasugayama]

Fleeting Memories

Kenshin struggles to overcome his grief after the death of his wife, straining his relationship further with his children. He became detached and distant. (Part 2)

Warning: Heavy angst, bad daddy Kenshin, unnamed MC

Children: Uesugi Takeru, 13 years old, Uesugi Ken, 13 years old, Uesugi Sakura, 5 years old

Part 1

Part 3

Part 4

.....................................................

Kasugayama Castle – Lesson Hall

The mid-morning sun cast a soft glow over the polished wooden floor of the lesson hall. Incense wafted faintly through the air, giving the room an air of calm that the brothers seated within were doing their best to undermine.

Takeru sat straight, as disciplined as ever, his dark hair falling perfectly into place above his sharp, composed features. His blue eyes reflected quiet intensity as he listened to their tutor’s lecture on castle fortifications.

Beside him, Ken was the picture of rebellion. His messy blond hair and lazy slouch seemed to suck the discipline out of the room. He absentmindedly twirled an ink brush in one hand while his other worked on something far more important than the lecture—a doodle.

"Ken."

Takeru’s voice broke the monotony. He didn’t even turn his head to know his brother was up to no good.

"What?" Ken muttered, his brush still moving.

"You’re drawing."

"Observant as ever, dear brother," Ken quipped, not bothering to look up.

Takeru leaned over slightly, his expression slipping into disbelief as he caught sight of the parchment.

The sketch depicted their father, Kenshin, looking thoroughly defeated as a chibi Sakura delivered a heroic headbutt to his gut. Above them, bold letters declared, “LOVE YOUR DAUGHTER OR PERISH!”

Takeru couldn’t help the small twitch of amusement at the corner of his mouth. “Is that supposed to be Father and Sakura?”

“Obviously,” Ken replied, holding up the drawing for closer inspection. “Sasuke said people in his village use art like this to tell stories. I thought I’d give it a shot.”

Takeru sighed. "And you chose to insult our father?"

Ken grinned, holding up the parchment. "Boldness runs in our family."

The tutor cleared his throat, glaring at them with all the authority a man who’d just been ignored for a few minutes could muster.

"Lord Takeru. Lord Ken. Perhaps you’d care to enlighten me about the siege of Odawara?"

Takeru straightened, but Ken waved a dismissive hand. "That’s the one where Hojo Ujiyasu’s men hid like scared rabbits until Father cut off their supplies and made them surrender. Easy."

The tutor blinked, momentarily taken aback.

"…Correct."

Takeru turned to Ken, impressed despite himself. "You do listen."

Ken leaned back, crossing his arms with a smug grin. “I always listen. I just don’t feel the need to make a show of it like you.”

Before Takeru could retort, a knock at the door drew their attention. A servant entered, bowing low. "A letter for Lord Ken."

Ken perked up immediately, snatching the letter from the servant’s hands with a suspicious level of enthusiasm.

"From who?" Takeru asked.

Ken didn’t answer, already engrossed in the letter.

The tutor frowned, his patience wearing thin.

“My lords, this lesson is not yet complete—”

Takeru turned to him, his voice calm and authoritative.

"Sensei, my deepest apologies, but this is a pressing family matter. We must conclude for today."

The tutor hesitated, glancing between the brothers. "Lord Takeru, this is highly irregular—"

"I assure you, we will return tomorrow ready to focus fully on your teachings,"

Takeru said, bowing slightly. His tone was polished, yet firm enough to leave no room for argument.

With a resigned sigh, the tutor gathered his scrolls.

"Very well. Until tomorrow, my lords. But don’t forget, Lord Kenshin expects you both at the war council this afternoon." He exited, muttering 'insolent youth' under his breath.

Once the door slid shut, Ken relaxed visibly, grinning. "Nicely done."

Takeru ignored him, already reaching for the letter.

"Let me see that," he said smoothly, his hand darting out.

Ken pulled it back. "It’s private."

Takeru arched an eyebrow. "Private? From Himeko?"

Ken scowled. "I said no—"

But Takeru moved faster, snatching the letter from his brother’s grasp.

"Hey!" Ken lunged for it, but Takeru danced out of reach, unfolding the letter with practiced ease. His grin widened as he began reading aloud.

"Dear Ken,

I received your letter. How brave of you to ask for my help so earnestly. It’s quite charming to see you so concerned for little Sakura. Truly, your heart is kinder than your temper suggests.

Also, the idea of you worrying over me is… flattering. Perhaps you should write more often? I wouldn’t mind having more of your attention.

I’ll speak to my father about intervening with Lord Kenshin. And if all else fails… I’ll simply take Sakura with me. She’ll be safe at our castle.

With love,

Himeko."

Takeru folded the letter neatly, his smirk wide. "She’s definitely flirting with you."

Ken’s ears turned bright red as he snatched the letter back. "She’s not flirting. She’s just… polite."

"Polite?" Takeru raised an eyebrow. "She practically invited you to write her love letters."

Ken stood abruptly, tucking the letter into his sleeve. "Let’s just focus on Sakura before Himeko actually kidnaps her."

Takeru chuckled as Ken stormed off, muttering under his breath. "You’re right. But you’re still blushing."

Ken’s response was muffled, but it sounded suspiciously like a threat.

.........................

Kasugayama Castle – War Council Room

After the lesson, the twins headed to the war council, where Kenshin, his advisors, and a few generals were gathered. Maps lay spread across the long table, detailing troop movements, supply routes, and defensive fortifications.

As the meeting wound down, Takeru seized the moment.

“Father,” he began, his voice calm and measured, “I’d like to discuss Sakura’s safety.”

Kenshin didn’t look up from the map. “She’s safe where she is.”

Takeru pressed on. “The manor is secluded. If something were to happen, it would take too long for aid to arrive. She would be safer here at the main castle.”

Kenshin’s gaze lifted, icy and sharp. “The manor is impenetrable. She stays.”

Ken, who had been silent until now, stepped forward, his voice laced with frustration.

“She’s our sister. She belongs here, with her family.”

Kenshin’s eyes flicked to Ken, his cold expression unchanging. “And I’ve decided what is best for her.”

“She’s not just some responsibility you can lock away,” Ken said, his voice rising. “She’s part of this family, and we want her closer.”

Kenshin’s voice was like steel. “Enough. I will not be questioned on this.”

Ken’s fists clenched, but Takeru stepped in, his hand lightly touching his brother’s arm. “We understand, Father,” he said smoothly, though his tone carried an edge.

Kenshin’s gaze lingered on them for a moment longer before he turned back to the map.

“Dismissed.”

Outside the meeting hall, Ken’s temper finally erupted. “How can he be so blind? She’s alone out there!”

Takeru sighed, his own frustration barely contained. “I don’t know. But we’ll figure something out.”

Ken nodded, but his anger remained.

.........................

Kasugayama Castle – Training Grounds

The sun hung low in the sky by the time Takeru and Ken arrived at the training grounds. The air was heavy with the quiet hum of cicadas, but the tension between the brothers was louder.

Kenshin stood at the far end of the courtyard, his arms crossed as he watched them approach. His presence felt colder than the steel of the katana resting at his side.

“Pick up your weapons,” Kenshin ordered without preamble.

Takeru and Ken exchanged a glance. Takeru took a wooden practice sword from the rack, but Ken hesitated. His grip lingered over the hilt of the bokken before finally snatching it up.

Kenshin’s eyes narrowed. “You’re angry. That’s good. It means today's training will be more worthwhile.”

Ken stepped forward, jaw tight. “Let me spar with you.”

Takeru’s head snapped toward his brother, but Kenshin didn’t react.

“Ken,” Takeru started, but Ken ignored him.

“I’ll fight you, Father. You said I’m reckless and weak. Let’s see if I am.” Ken’s green eyes burned with defiance.

Kenshin’s gaze was unreadable. For a long moment, he said nothing. Then, finally, he turned to Takeru.

“You,” Kenshin said coldly, “will spar him.”

Ken’s eyes flickered with frustration.

“That’s not—”

“If you can’t surpass your brother,” Kenshin interrupted, “you’re not ready to face me.”

Ken’s grip tightened on the bokken until his knuckles turned white.

“Fine.”

Takeru sighed under his breath but stepped into position, leveling his practice sword at Ken. “Let’s get this over with.”

They circled each other in silence, the courtyard thick with the weight of Kenshin’s gaze.

Ken attacked first, fast and wild. His bokken arced through the air, a blur of frustration-fueled strength. Takeru met him head-on, deflecting with the ease of someone who had done this countless times.

Wood clashed sharply, echoing through the courtyard. Ken pressed forward, each strike faster, stronger, fueled by the lingering frustration of the war council. But no matter how much force he poured into his attacks, Takeru parried each one with calm precision.

“Stop blocking!” Ken snapped, breathless. “Fight me properly!”

“I am fighting you,” Takeru replied, sliding past another strike. His voice was steady, but there was an edge to it. “You’re just not thinking.”

Ken lunged, but Takeru sidestepped, striking his brother lightly on the ribs.

“Damn it—!” Ken staggered back, panting.

Kenshin’s voice cut through the air, cold and sharp. “Predictable. You let anger cloud your judgment. That is why you lose.”

Ken’s grip trembled. His heart pounded with more than just exertion. He hated how calm Takeru looked. How easily his brother always seemed to handle everything.

“Maybe if you stopped running—”

Takeru’s eyes hardened. In an instant, he closed the gap between them, knocking Ken’s bokken aside and striking him squarely on the shoulder. Ken stumbled, his weapon clattering to the ground.

He froze, staring at it as silence filled the courtyard.

Kenshin stepped forward, his expression like carved ice. “Weak.”

Ken’s fists clenched at his sides. “I’m not weak.”

Kenshin’s gaze bore down on him. “Strength without control is recklessness. And recklessness gets people killed.”

Ken’s head snapped up, his eyes blazing. “Then teach me to control it! You keep telling me what I lack, but you never—”

“You think strength is given?” Kenshin interrupted, his voice cold. “It’s something you take. Something you bleed for. If you don’t understand that, you don’t deserve to stand here.”

Ken’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t speak.

Kenshin’s gaze lingered on him for a moment longer before turning to Takeru. “Again.”

Takeru hesitated.

“Father, maybe that’s enough—”

A flicker of warning flashed in Kenshin’s eyes, and Takeru fell silent. He returned to his position, his grip firm around the wooden blade.

Ken retrieved his bokken, his knuckles pale.

“I won’t hold back,” Takeru said softly.

Ken glared at him. “Good. I don’t want you to.”

This time, Takeru struck first. Ken barely deflected the blow, his muscles burning as he pushed back. The clash of wood echoed again and again, each strike heavier than the last.

Takeru’s attacks were controlled, efficient. Ken’s were fierce and desperate. But no matter how hard he swung, Takeru’s blade met his own.

Finally, Takeru swept Ken’s legs out from beneath him, sending him sprawling to the ground.

Ken coughed, his body aching from the fall. He stayed there, staring up at the sky.

Takeru crouched beside him, offering a hand. “You’ll get there. You just need to stop trying to win with anger alone.”

Ken sighed, feeling disgruntled. “I can’t believe I always lost to ‘Hey, let’s talk it out.’ guy. You like to solve things peacefully, but you fight like him...”

Takeru blinked, caught off guard by the humor laced with a hint of self-loathing. “You lost because you let your anger fight for you. If you can learn to control it, you’ll be unstoppable. You can even surpass me.”

“Easy for you to say.” Ken rolled his eyes and took his hand, letting Takeru pulled him to his feet.

From the edge of the training grounds, Kenshin’s voice cut through the air. “Sentiment is wasted on him, Takeru.”

Takeru turned, his jaw tightening. “I wasn’t being sentimental,” he said, his voice firm. “I was being a brother.”

Kenshin’s gaze flickered, but his expression remained cold. “Training is over. Takeru, with me.”

Ken straightened. “What about me?”

Kenshin’s eyes flicked to him. “Stay. Reflect.”

The word stung, but Ken said nothing.

As Kenshin and Takeru walked away, Ken dropped onto the grass beneath the shade of a tree, limbs heavy with exhaustion and frustration. He leaned back against the rough bark, emerald-green eyes clouded with thought before slowly sliding shut.

From the corner of his eye, Sasuke approached, his usual blank expression giving nothing away.

“Lord Ken,” Sasuke began, his tone calm yet careful, “if you’d like, I can spar with you. I promise not to win too quickly.”

Ken smirked faintly, brushing a stray lock of hair from his face. “I’ve had enough humiliation for one day.”

Sasuke tilted his head. “Reflecting, then?”

Ken sighed, leaning further into the shade. The warm light of the setting sun caught in his blonde hair, giving it a soft glow. He had inherited his striking looks from Kenshin, the same sharp bone structure and piercing gaze, but where Kenshin’s features were cold and imposing, Ken’s were softened by traces of his mother’s gentler feature.

“Yeah,” Ken murmured, voice quieter now. “Reflecting… with my eyes closed.”

Sasuke said nothing more, standing nearby in silence.

As Ken took a nap beneath the flickering sunlight, his soft blonde hair stirred gently in the breeze. In that peaceful moment, he looked less like Kenshin’s rebellious son and more like the child he still was.

.......................

The crunch of gravel beneath their feet was the only sound as Takeru and Kenshin walked side by side, their path leading away from one training ground toward another. The air between them was heavy, thick with the weight of unspoken words. Takeru’s fists clenched and unclenched at his sides, his jaw tight, every part of him bristling with the need to speak but terrified of what would come after.

“You have something to say,” Kenshin said finally, breaking the silence.

Takeru glanced sideways at his father, his expression guarded. “I don’t think you understand what it’s like for her. For any of us.”

Kenshin raised an eyebrow. “This again?”

“You demand perfection,” Takeru said, his voice trembling slightly with suppressed emotion. “From Ken and I. But you’ve never shown us what it meant to be loved, you..."

'weren't the loving father I remember years ago.'

Is what Takeru wanted to say, but his words caught in his throat, the accusation too raw, too dangerous. He swallowed hard, forcing himself to redirect. “Sakura is your daughter, yet you treat her like she’s invisible.”

Kenshin’s steps slowed, his face a mask of cold indifference.

Takeru’s composure began to crack at his silence, his voice rising. “And in doing so, you’ve stripped us of everything else. If you have lost the capability to love, at least don't rob it from us. Let Sakura move in with us so we can at least shower her with love, even if you won't.”

The plea hung in the air, raw and trembling. For a moment, Takeru thought he saw something in Kenshin’s eyes, pain, regret, something human. But it vanished, replaced by a chilling resolve.

“If you think you know better, prove it. Draw your sword.”

Takeru blinked, the words hitting him like a slap. “Father, no. This isn’t—”

“Draw. Your. Sword,” Kenshin repeated, his tone brooking no argument. “If you believe you have the right to question me, show me.”

Takeru’s hand hovered over the hilt of his practice blade. His instincts screamed at him to walk away, to find another way. He didn't want to resolve this with fighting. He had always relied on words, on reason, because violence felt too dangerous, too close to becoming… him.

But Kenshin’s gaze bored into him, unyielding, demanding.

Takeru’s hand tightened around the hilt of his blade, and he drew it slowly, the weight of it unfamiliar and heavy.

.....................

The clash of their swords was deafening, echoing off the stone walls. Kenshin’s strikes were relentless, each one a calculated blow meant to overwhelm. Takeru struggled to keep up, his movements increasingly desperate.

“You think love makes you strong?” Kenshin said, his voice calm even as his attacks intensified. “It makes you reckless.”

Takeru gritted his teeth, sweat dripping into his eyes. “It makes me human.”

“And that is your weakness,” Kenshin countered, delivering a blow that sent Takeru staggering.

The fight wasn’t fair. Kenshin was faster, stronger, and more experienced. Every time Takeru tried to gain ground, Kenshin would take it back with ease.

“You hesitate,” Kenshin said, his blade whistling through the air. “You think too much. You hold back.”

Takeru’s breaths came in ragged gasps, his vision blurred with sweat and tears. He fought not just his father but the darkness rising within himself, the strange, terrible thrill of the fight. He didn’t want to feel it, didn’t want to give in to the same hunger that drove Kenshin.

I hate you.

The thought surged through him, fierce and undeniable. He hated Kenshin for the coldness, the cruelty, for the ways he was scared to confront his feelings, the way he enjoyed swinging his sword. And he hated himself for feeling the same fire burning in his own chest.

Kenshin’s blade came down in a crushing arc, but Takeru, fueled by desperation, deflected it with a strength he didn’t know he possessed. With a wild, reckless swing, he disarmed Kenshin, the older man’s sword clattering to the ground.

Silence fell like a hammer, the echoes of their clash fading into the void.

Kenshin looked down at his empty hand, his face unreadable. For a fleeting moment, Takeru thought he saw something in Kenshin's eyes—pride, but it quickly disappeared, swallowed by the mask his father always wore.

“You’ve made your point,” Kenshin said, his voice hollow. “Sakura will return to the castle.”

He turned and walked away without another word, leaving Takeru standing alone in the gathering twilight.

Takeru sank to his knees, his sword slipping from his grasp. His chest heaved, but the air around him felt suffocating, crushing.

He had won.

But it felt wrong.

Tears blurred his vision as he stared at the ground, his body shaking. He had fought to protect Sakura, to demand the love she deserved. But in doing so, he had felt something terrifying stir within him.

I’m just like him.

The thought tore through him, raw and unforgiving. He had sworn to be different, to lead with compassion, with wisdom, as his mother had wanted. But for one terrible moment, he had embraced the darkness. He had fought not just Kenshin but the part of himself that was drawn to the same cold, madness.

His hands clenched into fists, his nails biting into his palms. He would fight it. He had to. For Sakura. For Ken. For Mother. For the family he still dreamed of saving.

But deep down, the fear lingered. No matter how hard he tried, no matter how much he fought… he was his father’s son. And that truth terrified him most of all.