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fanaticsnail · 10 months

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Let Me Take Care of You

Even though I have all of the one-shots planned out and added to the Masterlist, mapped out several other plot points, and attempted to prioritize fics that I've desperately been putting off - I feel like we all needed this. TLC for our broody warlord. He needs to have his burden relieved in a SFW way (for once, regarding my writing!).

Word Count: 4,323

Warnings: semi-sub-Mihawk, switch-behaviour, moaning, kissing, pining, massaging, swearing (once), barely proof-read, fluff.

Song suggestion: Older - Isabel LaRosa

The amber-coloured eyes of the warlord shut tightly as he rose the maroon-coloured liquid to his lips; barely a whisper of a flinch perking up to his crows feet as he sipped at it. He rolled the bitter liquid over his tongue, savouring the flavour of the tart tannins before relinquishing it down his throat. The alcohol trickled down his neck to pool in a heat at the pit of his bare chest and stomach as he listened further to your melodical voice speaking with expert precision his readying schedule.

“Praises of your battle have already been sent in from the World Government’s head office,” you nodded, relinquishing the rolled newspaper from beneath your arm to present to the warlord while expertly holding your clipboard up to your face.

Mihawk rolled his neck, reopening his eyes and grasping the wafer-fine paper roll from your outstretched hand. Fingertips barely whispering a small touch, you retracted your hand from his once he clasped his hand around the material.

“Go on,” he commanded in a lazy tone while unrolling the paper to begin reading it. A glimpse of agitation fell to the warlord’s brow as his eyes narrowed, skimming over the pages while you continued to relay his schedule to him.

“You expressed interest in tending to your vineyard later today: I’ve already sent for your stable-hand to brush down your Clydesdale for a ride,” your eyes narrowed as you examined your boss, “also, the horticulturalist and viticulturalist have scheduled a meeting with you and the cellar hands to ready the next vintage of Tokaji for you to sample.”

Mihawk hummed in response, his nose hissing in a small, sharp inhale afterwards.

You were accustomed to his surliness as his personal assistant; your roles being from administrative roles regarding: scheduling, to managing his liaisons with the world government contacts to running his large homestead and farmlands with his many staff; alongside his sales associate for his Tokaji distribution and growth on Kuraigana. You were on first name terms after several years within his service, but chose to remain formal while you were within working hours.

“Sir?” you asked him, sharply. He snapped his unblinking eyes to bore into your own.

“Yes?” he questioned in a bored, drawn out tone.

“You are less like yourself today,” you noted, pulling the clipboard away from the front of your torso and placing it down on the table to lay it before him, “you normally rise at the opportunity to indulge in your samples. Is there something I should be made aware of? An injury perhaps?”

A small scowl drew itself upon the lips of the warlord; something akin to a pout below his well-maintained moustache.

“If any of them had the skill to land a single blow, I would have made you aware of such an occurrence,” he taunted you, agitation again falling to his brow. He floated his hawk-eyes back to the newspaper, shaking it to stabilise the material with a firm grip.

You cocked your chin sharply at his challenge, quickly raking your eyes over his body to check it for injury or slight dishevelment. Your sights fell to his righthand shoulder; zeroing your eyes with a precise beam against his upper body.

“You’ve pulled something,” you noted through pursed lips, “an overexertion wielding Yoru, no doubt while-.”

“-I have no such ailment,” he spoke over you in a sharp tone, his eyes snapping to yours over the top of the newspaper with a scowl. You held your narrowed gaze against his own with relentless resolve, choosing to step towards him as he withdrew his sights to fall back to the newspaper.

“As you’ve been priorly informed, sir, I have quite the resume,” you began, bringing your fingertips to curl down the top of the paper Mihawk was grasping, “you are aware of my history as a rehabilitative remedial therapist, and I am glad to offer my hands to you should you ever require them.”

It was true. Your vast experience was why Dracule Mihawk hired you. Your resume was unlike anything he had encountered prior, which is why he chose to keep you close. Swordsmanship, dagger mastery, martial combat, administrative duties, expert skills in the realms of viticulture and remedial massage occupied the majority of your time in study – undoubtedly the reason you never acquired the opportunity to settle down and home-make with a partner of your own, and chose to accept the role of assistant from the great swordsman.

Mihawk chose to ignore your hand pulling the paper downwards and continue to skim his eyes on the lower edges of the page to avoid your statement. You quirked your brow at him in question before sighing and retracting your hand from the pages.

“If that will be all, sir,” you began with a curt nod, “I shall retire to my duties managing your staff.”

As you turned to flee from the large dining hall, a voice softly addressed you.

“Fine,” Mihawk uttered in a low tone, prompting you to halt your next step, “I admit it. Wielding Yoru has taken its toll recently and I may have strained myself under the weight.”

You smirked before turning back towards your boss. Tilting your neck to relieve a small ‘click’ of pressure, you dropped your smirk and turned back to face him once more.

“Would you like me to rid that burden from you, sir?” you asked him, approaching the table once more while reaching for the newspaper and wine glass from his hands, “take the weight from your shoulders?”

He sighed, dropping his head and relinquishing his grasp on the two objects and handed them over to you.

“Yes,” he admitted in a exhaled whisper.

A soft smile drew itself to the corners of your lips as you placed down the objects on the table in front of him. You had never before crossed this particular boundary between you and Mihawk; fondness in professional comradery being the only true establishment in your relationship before the years and depth of professional curtesy blossomed into true alliance.

As your tenure drew close, your relationship did begin to deepen over a glass of wine or two after you had completed your duties of the evening. He had begun asking for your opinion after your third year of service. Your fifth year, he trusted your judgements in a variety of tasks; relinquishing them completely to you.

Within the eighth year of employment, he would often seek you out for conversation regarding his staff; often seeking, in his own way, gossip amongst the members he employed. This being your ninth year of employment, you could easily find the word ‘friend’ from falling within your thoughts regarding the dark-haired gentleman before you. You held a fondness for him, often desiring to see him thrive in achieving his combatant goals and maintaining his title of world’s greatest swordsman. You could even go so far as to say you loved him; pining for him through subtlety caring for him in all ways in your duties.

“Say no more,” you responded, reaching your hand towards his own; gaining his full attention in a curt snap of his chin upwards. He gazed up at you, you almost stooping towards his seated form. His eyes held the depth of his ailment.

“Go and ready yourself in the bathing quarters; dress down but remain covered,” you nodded to him, giving his hand a gentle squeeze in affirmation, “I’ll have your itinerary cancelled for the day and rescheduled for the following week. And between us,” you reached your other hand to smooth over his cheek in a gentle caress, “the grapes would do well with maturing on the vine for a little while longer.”

He hummed against your hand, eyes closing and leaning into your caress. You were taken aback at his unwithheld expression of fondness for you. Helping to guide him to his feet, you ushered him throughout the doors, noticing his usually strict and rigid posture had begun to slouch against the burden on his shoulders.

You shook your head with your soft smile remaining, watching him as the final shadow of his body fell away from view. Arrangements made through den-den-mushi calls and vocal commands to your underlings; you widened your fingers to ready themselves to rid the warlord of the burdens he was carrying in the knots littered along his back and shoulders.

Walking along the halls, up the many steps and winding along the corridors; you found your feet falling to the large bathing quarters of the large, darkened castle. You knocked on the wooden door with a tri-fold, curt rap – the inner room welcoming you with a small groan beckoning your arrival from within.

You opened the door, truly not quite prepared for the sight befalling you.

Dracule Mihawk, clad in nothing but a white towel hanging from his hips: his hat, necklace and sword being nowhere in sight. Your eyes met with his curled, dark locks as his head hung lowly; his hands clasping the marble, low-lying table beneath his palms. You could almost visibly see the waves of tension falling from his bare shoulders, prompting a small gasp of empathy to fall from your lips as you shut the door behind you.

“Why did you not say something sooner, my lord?” you asked him, approaching him swiftly. He sighed in response, holding his eyes fixed to the polished tiles beneath his bare feet.

“I do not readily present vulnerability to those I employ,” he uttered through clenched teeth, “why should you be any different?”

Your brows fell to a firm frown, eyes narrowing as you uttered: “I would have thought after nearly ten years of service, we would call each other ‘friend’ by now.”

He sighed again, shoulders slouching further under the weight of his burden.

“Okay, friend,” he mocked, bringing his eyes up to meet with your own, “if you would be so kind as to hold true to your promise. Fix me.”

You folded your arms over your chest and widened your stance in stubbornness.

“Ask me more politely, friend,” you sternly challenged him; “and I just may find it in my heart to do so-.”

“-please,” Mihawk whispered through baited breath in a tone you could only just pick up on your registry.

“Beg, pardon?” you asked him, not truly processing the words falling from his lips.

“Please,” he stated a little more firmly, his eyes almost wide and pleading with you, “please fix me.”

You were shocked. Taken-aback. Flabbergasted. Holding true to your promise, you relinquished your shoes from their presence wrapped around your feet and placed them neatly by the door.

The next item you removed was your socks, placing them within the soles of your shoes. Removing your coat and placing it by the door, you turned back towards your boss and began your approach. You stood in front of him, his head bowed low once more to reveal his broad shoulders towards you.

“If I may assess the damage, sir?” you asked, reaching your hand out to touch his shoulder.

“By all means,” he mocked you, a small chuckle almost leaving as you touched your palm to his shoulder while remaining strong in front of him. Feeling the warmth radiating from his body, an audible gasp fled your lips alongside an empathetic wince.

“Fuck,” you gasped, feeling the muscle below his skin. It was completely solid. There was no ‘knot’ to work out; his entire shoulder was one large intertwining vine of tension and pressure.

Another sigh fled from his lips at your reaction, his voice addressing you; “is it truly that bad?”

You clicked your neck from side to side, retracting your hand from his shoulder and drawing your fingers to intertwine within each other to stretch them in preparation.

“Sir,” you addressed him, his eyes drawing again to yours from their down-focussed position upwards.

“Yes?” He challenged you, his tone once again mocking you with his pained smirk lingering beneath.

“You-,” you collected his chin within your fingers to hold his gae against your own, “-are going to absolutely hate me after this.”

“I doubt that,” his smirk widened.

“Oh,” you shook your head, relinquishing your hold on his chin and returning to your pile of clothes, “you are either going to fire me-,” you said, undoing your belt and untucking your shirt to have it fall below your underwear to keep you shielded, “-or propose to me after this.”

“What are you doing?” he asked you, his shoulders stiffening upright and alert at your movements. A snarl fell to his mouth as you pulled your pants from your hips downwards to pool at your feet.

“Calm down-,” your face was completely serious, your air of command falling freely from your lips in reaffirmation, “-I am going to need my knees for the job to be properly performed. Judging from the knots on your shoulders; I’m assuming the rest of your body has been equally as ill-maintained in care.”

His snarl lessened, his jaw almost falling slack before he tensed it.

“If you insist,” he relinquished his hesitation, “you know what’s best.”

“That I do, sir,” you nodded to him, again approaching him once more with a fresh towel in hand, “use this to prop your head and lie face down on the bench. Let me take care of you.”

He immediately snatched the towel from your hands and in one swift movement, he fell immediately to lie on his stomach with his arms bent outwards to prop below his chin. You couldn’t help the small giggle to fall from your lips at his eagerness, but as you were reminded of your prior experience feeling his marble-like stiffness below his muscular definition; you would be exactly as eager to be rid of your burden as he currently was.

“Get on with it, then-,” he commanded you, halting as your firm hands gripped his shoulders and began to search his muscles for the source of the tension. His spine, shoulder blades, rib cage and biceps were all stiff and rigid; a plate of stone ready to be carved under your expert and precise skill to be restored and moulded into his glory.

You winced as you located the large knot, a place in the crevasse between his shoulder blade and spinal collum close to his upper neck. You tested the pressure with your thumbs, syphoning an unintentional moan to wince through the lips of the warlord. Mihawk tensed at the shock of the sound you managed to pull from him, opening his mouth to speak; only to be cut off with your verbal reprimand.

“There is no shame in sounds here, my lord,” you informed him, pushing down further against the knot and rotating your thumbs expertly in a circular motion, “I can tell how much this pains you, and I can sense the relief you will come to feel once I rid you truly of it. If it causes you more tension to withhold your vocalisations, by all means do not restrain yourself.”

Replacing your thumb with the precise point of your elbow had Mihawk arching back into your touch with his bottom lip clenched between his top teeth; his breath hissing out in an attempt to restrain his audible moan. You continued to utilise your left arm to drive down your right elbow for a firmer pressure; finally withdrawing a completely unrestrained whimper to escape from the lips of the warlord below you as he humbled himself truly under your ministrations.

“Well done, sir,” you praised him, dragging your elbow to the mirrored point on the other shoulder to relinquish the lesser knot on the other side, “you’re doing wonderfully-.”

“-Do not treat me like some incapable- ungh!” his words were stolen from him as you continued to work your remedial magic against his knots; battling with them and overcoming them in combat beneath your skilled hands.

“Stop holding back,” you commanded him firmly, lying your right forearm directly onto his spine and baring down your weight onto it, “the more you withhold your humility, the more tense you become. Let me help you.”

Under those final four worded commands, Dracule Mihawk became a mewling, gasping, sighing mess beneath your talented hands and forearms as you continued to detangle the firm vines of his hardened knots beneath his skin. You remained professional under the sounds you pulled from him, fighting the warmth that began rising upwards from your chest to your cheeks.

You leant down towards his ear, his dark curls brushing against your cheek as you brought your lips towards his ear.

“I am going to stand on you now, my lord,” you informed him as you continued to put pressure against his left shoulder, “if that is alright with you-.”

“-Yes,” he sighed, his eyes met with yours with his pupils completely blown with unbridled satisfaction and anticipation, “please.”

His jaw was slack, his breath fleeing his lips in shallow pants as he was guided within a place somewhere situated with the most pain his body had been within while chasing the biggest release of complete relief and descending his burden onto you.

“As you command it, sir,” you nodded to him with a warm smile, placing your palms flat on his back and jumping to situate your feet beneath his thighs as you crouched lowly. You placed your bare knees against his glutes and bore the brunt of your weight first onto those pressure points.

Another relentless whimper fell from his lips before he allowed an unbridled moan to fully escape from his lips as the pressure became completely withdrawn from his muscles; leaving his body completely exposed and mouldable below your ministrations.

“I’ll be placing my feet on you now, sir,” you informed him, testing his lower back with your left foot as you rose from your kneeling position, “if you could trust my leadership for this next experience; I will guide you on when to inhale and exhale to relieve your body completely of the tension. Can you do that for me?”

“Y-yes,” he sighed. His tone caused you apprehension as you began to have the warmth from your chest truly spread itself in reaction to his vocalisation. You mentally scolded yourself, reminding yourself that you were a professional and this was your job; Mihawk was your boss, not some lover or object for you to fixate your desires upon. You shook your head and began to rise your body while baring your weight against his back beneath your feet.

“My lord-,” you began, halted only by his next words.

“-Mihawk,” he corrected you, “call me Mihawk, please.”

You nodded, inhaling and exhaling slowly to not read into his correction further than needed to be.

“Okay, Mihawk,” you spoke, a smile rising against your lips as you savoured the flavour of his name rolling over your tongue, “inhale.”

His torso rose upwards to completely balloon his chest upwards as you placed your left foot steadily against his spine.

“And slowly exhale,” you directed him, chasing after his breath with your weight. You felt the satisfaction of a loud ‘crunch’ below your toes followed by a cry of complete abandon falling from the lips of your boss below your feet.

“Good job, Mihawk,” you praised him again, “you’re listening very well.”

He moaned again against your praise as you trailed your feet upwards to fall against the mid of his back; “let’s do it again. A big inhale for me, please.”

Again breathing in a long inhale, you chased his breath with your weight while commanding him, “exhale now, Mihawk.” ‘Crunch.’

As a baker would roll out and form a crusted pastry; you were spreading out the torso of Mihawk against your weight, pulling moans, groans and cries of bliss from his lips as he listened intently to your every command. Each time he would gift you with a satisfactory ‘click,’ ‘crack,’ or ‘crunch,’ of his back and spine; you would offer him praise to follow. “Well done, Mihawk,” “you’re doing so well,” or comments of “oh, I bet that felt so good,” would fall from your own alongside an empathetic groan of pleasure at the relief he should surely feel beneath your feet.

As you fell to his shoulder blades, you stood on the tips of your toes and began to shuffle your feet to rid the flesh of any tension before you fell your feet back to drop to a kneeling position: your knees falling against his shoulders with your fingertips spread wide to brace your weight fully onto his body.

You rocked your knees against his shoulders, Mihawk’s mouth fully falling slack at this stage and brows furrowing in bliss with his eyes shut tightly. You craned your head to the side to get a full picture of his face; your brows again falling to a frown at his tension.

“Mihawk,” you verbally warned him, his eyes clenching tighter in response, “give yourself permission to be truly vulnerable beneath me.”

He sighed out a sharp exhale, his face contorting again; prompting you to apprehensively reach your hand forward to cup his cheek. His eyes fluttered open with his brows remaining furrowed. His beard felt coarse beneath your hand as your thumb soothed his cheek with small circles.

“I promise,” you moved your hand up to rub your thumb over his forehead, “you will feel much better once you just let go.”

His gaze fell to your lips before reluctantly pulling it back upwards to land on your eyes; his own eyes softening as he nodded subtly.

“Good man,” you praised him with a warm smile, removing your hand and leant backwards onto your feet once more closer to his shoulders, “now inhale once more.”

With a shaken breath, he inhaled again; feeling the tips of your fingers firmly against his neck, your knees against his shoulders and the balls of your feet perched on his lower back.

“Now exhale,” you softly commanded him, rolling your weight to your knees and chasing his relief with your body. ‘Crack.’

A low, rumbly groan of pleasure exited from the lips of the warlord in complete bliss as his tension had been successfully relieved beneath your skilled ministrations.

You smiled, slowly bringing your feet to the cool, tiled floor beneath your feet. Briefly sitting yourself atop his back, your white shirt rising slightly to reveal your underwear against his bare flesh, you hopped yourself down from your perch atop him. Reflexes overtook you as you reached your hand forward to rake through his dark locks, ruffling them beneath your fingers as you drew patterned circles against his scalp.

“Do you feel better?” you asked him, tilting your head downwards to check over his face for any further discomfort. In response, Dracule Mihawk immediately sprung to his feet; his hands falling beneath your shirt to grasp at the flesh above your hips. He dragged your pelvis to lie flush against his own, angling his chin downwards and entangling his lips against yours in a dance of passion.

Your eyes widened, your hand continuing its woven position within his hair as his moustache tickled your upper lip. You squealed out in surprise as his tongue protruded and caressed your lips as he circled his chin upwards to deepen his embrace. Raking his hands further beneath your shirt and circling around your back, he fully caged you against himself as a hawk would carry his prey within his talons.

He retracted his lips from his caress against your own and began trailing affectionate, fluttering kisses against your chin and jawline towards your ear; cradling your body completely against himself with a small, gleeful sway. You felt him smile against your skin, prompting more shock to rise to your face. Your fight, flight and freeze reflexes truly all engaged as this completely unprompted response from Dracule Mihawk continued in a dance of balancing lazy and abandoned sensibilities with a passionate and calculated engagement against your body.

He walked your body backwards towards the wall and fell himself to brace against it with his head fully falling against the arch between your neck and shoulder. He allowed another moan to fall from his lips as he bore his full weight against you; your arms reactionarily falling beneath his arms to catch him.

“Sir,” you addressed him in a warning tone, “I would not have gotten up that quickly. You needed time for your body to readjust to your new alignment before you bore your full weight onto yourself.”

“Patience is not my strongest suit, dear,” he chuckled against your shoulder, pressing his lips against your clothed body, “especially when it comes to expressing gratuity to my beautiful friend.”

You giggled, bracing his body completely against your own and in turn walking him backwards to knock the point behind his knees against the marble benchtop. He fell to a seated position, his forehead remaining connected to your stomach.

“Thank you,” he whispered, his hands falling to the back of your exposed thighs and holding your body against his forehead, “can we draw up more of those into our schedule?”

You furrowed your brows at him, reaching your right hand to retrieve his chin to tilt his head upwards to gaze into your eyes.

“My hands are yours, sir-,” you began, Mihawk bringing his left hand up to cradle your right hand within it; pressing a deep kiss against your palm while correcting you.

“-Mihawk,” he uttered, pressing another chaste kiss against your palm looking down at your hands affectionately, “please. When we’re alone like this, I am Mihawk to you.”

“Need I remind you, Mihawk,” you warned him, chasing his gaze with your own, “I am your employee, not your spouse.”

“Allow me to alter that arrangement,” he smirked against your palm, flittering his gaze upwards to meet your own once more. You shook your head at his statement with a small, half-smile.

“Firing me?” you asked him coyly, your left brow arched upwards in question.

“Courting you,” he corrected you, beckoning for you to arch downwards with his chin to rejoin your lips against his once more. Smiles and sighs in satisfaction of finally giving into your desires for one another falling from you both in unified harmony.

#one piece #opla #opla fic #one piece live action #x reader #dracule mihawk #mihawk fanfiction #mihawk #opla mihawk x reader #mihawk x reader #one piece mihawk #fluff #mutual pining

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growingstories · 1 year

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Side business

Gianni, a 23-year-old marketeer that recently graduated, landed a job as a junior press officer at a prestigious Italian fashion brand. As he embarked on his exciting new career, he began sharing his adventures on social media. His Instagram account quickly gained popularity, attracting an audience of over 50,000 followers.

His boss discovered Gianni's growing online influence and recognized its potential. Impressed by his ability to engage with an audience, Gianni was promoted to a senior position within the company. His boss even suggested a plan for Gianni to collaborate with other influencers and showcase outfits before they hit the stores. This strategy greatly boosted the brand's sales and left everyone involved thrilled with the results.

Gianni's online presence caught the attention of travel brands, who saw a perfect opportunity to collaborate with him. Combining his passion for travel with his current job seemed like a dream come true. Eventually, Gianni was offered a different position that allowed him to travel the world as a brand ambassador and head of social media. This proved to be a tremendous success, as he earned money by partnering with other brands and posting about their products. His healthy lifestyle and fitness journey also made him a sought-after expert, leading to features in renowned publications like Vogue, Vanity Fair, and G.Q Gianni's popularity continued to rise, and he enjoyed the luxury of a lavish lifestyle, complete with a glamorous personal trainer, Francesco. Francesco drives a Porsche and loves fancy watches.

For many years, Gianni thrived, giving Ted talks and attending exclusive parties, collaborating with numerous companies and earning substantial amounts of money. He even purchased a grand house in Tuscany and shared the renovation process online, engaging his followers with step-by-step updates and showcasing furniture brands.

Eventually, Gianni decided to leave his day job and focus solely on endorsement deals. He started offering online courses, recording podcasts from his home studio, and hosting, pay exclusive-per-view live Q&A sessions for his subscribers. While Gianni received many tempting offers of a sexual nature, he always declined. However, one evening, after consuming a few drinks, he engaged in a private, sexually explicit Q&A session with a follower named Franco89. This opened the door to more explicit conversations and eventually led Gianni to create a secret OnlyFans account. There, he redirected fans who desired sexually oriented content, including Franco89.

FitFrank, who Gianni initially didn't recognize, messaged him one day. Their conversations quickly evolved, and they eventually engaged in virtual intimate encounters. Although Gianni had his reservations, FitFrank eventually persuaded him to participate in paid jerk-off sessions, which they conducted weekly.

Amidst his immense success, Gianni received fan mail, flowers, and outfits from well-known brands. Due to his excellent physique, he could easily request any outfit he desired. One day, he found a box of cupcakes and received message a from FitFrank insinuating that he knew about the cupcakes. Initially Gianni dismissed, it, assuming it was a coincidence. However, after tasting and enjoying the cupcakes during one of his live sessions, FitFrank sent him a message, revealing that he was aware of Gianni’s indulgence. Intrigued, Gianni engaged in a conversation with FitFrank, who made an unusual offer: €100 for each cupcake Gianni ate during a live session. Although Gianni hesitated at first, FitFrank increased the offer to €1000 for two live eating sessions per month. Succumbing to the allure of the lucrative deal, Gianni agreed to indulge himself weekly.

Gianni's popularity continued to soar, and endorsement offers poured in, particularly for swimwear. Whenever he posted about a particular brand, it sold out immediately. His fit body, dedication to fitness, and healthy eating habits had transformed him into a lifestyle specialist, attracting media attention from magazines such as Vogue, Vanity Fair, and GQ.

However, as Gianni's workload increased, he found less time for travel and decided to reduce his trips. Instead, he focused on providing online courses and hosting events exclusively in Italy. He also introduced paid subscriptions for his live Q&A sessions, further boosting his income.

Despite his success, Gianni couldn't help but notice his clothes becoming tighter. Concerned about his appearance, he decided to end his deal with FitFrank and ignored his messages. However, FitFrank responded by sending cupcakes every morning, tempting Gianni to continue their arrangement. Eventually, FitFrank offered even more money, €1000 per cake. Gianni decided to extend the deal for one more month.

The cakes became larger and more challenging to consume, but Gianni managed to complete each one. FitFrank saw Gianni's dedication and increased the offer to €5000 per month after the last cake. Although the cakes grew in size, Gianni determination remained unwavering.

Despite his success, Gianni's lifestyle began to take a toll on his physique. Personal trainer Francesco expressed concern and suggested a diet to help Gianni lose weight. Francesco feared that having a visibly overweight ambassador would harm his own reputation. Gianni understood the need for change and revealed his to followers that he had gained weight during a renovation project. He created a weight loss program with Francesco for his fans, which received a positive response during the pre-sale phase.

However, Gianni's weight gain continued, exacerbated by his ongoing indulgence in FitFrank's cakes and cupcakes. Francesco confronted Gianni during a live session, shocked by his additional weight gain. Promising to do better, Gianni continued his collaboration with Francesco, now paying for the fitness program.

After two weeks, Gianni realized that his efforts were futile, and he had only gained more weight. Francesco, furious with Gianni's lack of progress, demanded that he publicly announce the end of their collaboration or face legal consequences. Gianni reluctantly complied, confessing to his followers that he was too weak to continue the program. He stepped on the scale and broke down in tears at realization that he the had gained a significant amount of weight.

Confused and desperate, Gianni questioned why he had continued the eating sessions despite having no financial need. Was it simply for attention? FitFrank, aware of Gianni's struggles, initiated a deep conversation that evening, forming a strong connection between them.

As Gianni's weight continued to increase due to FitFrank's challenges and his own overulindgence, he embarked on a four-week, all-inclusive trip to various resorts. The luxurious accommodations offered exquisite indulgences, leaving little time for exercise and fitness. He found himself in a predicament when thewear swim brands he had collaborated with realized his significant weight gain, causing them to distance themselves from him. Gianni grew about anxious his future and impact the his weight gain would have on his career.

During this uncertain time, FitFrank remained a constant presence, sending messages and offering support. Feeling a sense of care and connection, Gianni appreciated FitFrank's attention. They grew closer, building a relationship that felt as though they had known each other for years.

To salvage his career, Gianni had to lose weight, but the temptation of indulgent food and alcohol endorsements made it difficult to stick to his diet. In a desperate move, he accepted a deal with a champagne brand to become their brand ambassador for a year. This involved a week-long trip to a champagne mansion to sample the entire range and create content. The trip consisted of lavish tastings and extravagant meals, leaving Gianni hungover and on the brink of failure. He returned home feeling exhausted and defeated.

Gianni's weight became a source of worry, both for himself and the brands he had collaborated with. FitFrank continued to send him chocolates, and Gianni, feeling discouraged, started eating them. When FitFrank reached out, Gianni confessed his struggles, and their conversation became progressively intimate. However, during one chat, a technical glitch revealed FitFrank's identity, leaving Gianni enraged.

Confronting Francesco at the gym, Gianni discovered his personal trainer's secret life as a creator of weight gain content. Francesco had been secretly livestreaming and profiting from Gianni's weight gain journey, while driving an extravagant lifestyle. Francesco confessed to making over €450,000 from donations by viewers fascinated with Gianni's transformation.

Feeling betrayed by Francesco, Gianni hatched a plan to regain control. He proposed a new arrangement to FitFrank, demanding a majority of the revenue, FitFrank's authentic appearance and FitFrank joins in on food challenges. If FitFrank refused, Gianni threatened to expose him to his clients. Relantly, Francesco agreed, realizing that he had little choice if he wanted to maintain his luxurious lifestyle.

Together, Gianni and FitFrank continued their indulgent food challenges, delighting their followers with their ever-expanding physiques. FitFrank's following and body grew, and their loyal fans paid top dollar for their content. The money poured in, but Gianni couldn't help but wonder if his obsession with food and attention had gone too far. And how far will he go?

#fictionalweightgain #maleweightgain #maleweightgainstories #weightgain #weightgainstories #fictionalstories #wg fantasy #wg fiction

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blueiscoool · 7 months

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A Hoard of 122 Anglo-Saxon Coins Sells at Auction

A hoard of more than 100 Anglo-Saxon coins discovered by two metal detectorists in a field near Braintree, Essex, has been sold auction at Noonans Mayfair on February 21. Believed to have been buried in 1066 and owned by an individual who died during the Battle of Hastings. The collection of Anglo-Saxon pennies found by two metal detectorists have been sold for £325,560 ($411,000) at auction.

The coins were each worth 12 shillings, a considerable sum back in 11th century, leading Noonans’s coin expert Bradley Hopper to hypothesize that the reason they were abandoned was due “some great personal misfortune” such as the death of their owner in the conflict. Hopper added, though, that “it was perhaps quite common for people who had access neither to banks nor vaults to conceal their wealth in the ground, even in times of peace.” All bar two of the coins were minted within five years of 1066.

A small selection of coins from the hoard were bought by Colchester Museum and the Fitzwilliam Museum in Cambridge, following the protocol of the 1996 Treasure Act. The purchased coins include two 11th-century Byzantine coins.

The metal detectorists found the majority of the coins in 2019 over the course of a few days, all within a 100-foot radius, some just inches beneath ground’s surface. A further 70 coins were found when the site was revisited in 2020. The coins were minted in various southern English towns and cities, including London, Cambridge, Canterbury, and Hastings.

The coins date from the reigns of Edward the Confessor and Harold II, the last two Anglo-Saxon kings of England. Harold was killed during the 1066 Battle of Hastings, seen on the Bayeux Tapestry receiving a fatal arrow through the eye. His death marked the victory of William the Conqueror, the first Norman king of England.

The detectorists have kept several coins, with 122 of the remaining relics headed to Noonans. The proceeds will be shared between the finders and the owner of the land on which the coins were discovered. Some coins included in the sale are exceedingly rare and could fetch £6,000 ($7,600) individually.

Hopper said that Noonans is “particularly fortunate that the auction catalogue contains not only the rarest and most academically interesting English coins from the Braintree Hoard, but also those pieces in the finest state of preservation.” He hopes that the auction will “promote further research into this wonderful coinage.”

By Verity Babbs.

#A Hoard of 122 Anglo-Saxon Coins Sells at Auction #Noonans Mayfair #Battle of Hastings #Edward the Confessor #Harold II #William the Conqueror #metal detecting #coins #collectable coins #rare coins #ancient artifacts #archeology #archeolgst #history #history news #ancient history #ancient culture #ancient civilizations #middle ages

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eurydycee · 2 months

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Winter’s Thorn: chapter II amidst chivalry and rivalry

⚘ cregan stark x tyrell!OC

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Synopsis: Caught in the political machinations of Westeros, Lady Euphemia Tyrell and her brother Adlyn, Lord Tyrell, Warden of the Reach navigate treacherous alliances to secure their house's future. Summoned to King's Landing, Adlyn strikes a desperate deal with Lord Cregan Stark, unknowingly sealing Euphemia's fate. As winter approaches, House Tyrell must balance duty, loyalty, and survival in a realm fraught with danger.

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format: series (ongoing) word count: ~ 3k warnings: hint of violence, not reread a/n: hello! this is my very first fanfiction...requests and criticism are always welcome if you want to be tagged comment!! I really hope you will enjoy it as much as I have (english is not even in my top 3 languages haha). omg I did not expect any interaction I'm truly grateful ( don't be shy to comment!)

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The sun had already reached its culmination, casting a quiet hot, golden glow over the tourney grounds. Vibrant banners fluttered in the breeze each bearing a colour and sigil to represent a house. The triumphant notes of the trumpets blared through the arena, signalling the beginning of the festivities. The crowd erupted in cheers, the excitement palpable as they anticipated the day's events. The clattering of armour and the clinking of weapons only added to the din, creating a symphony of sounds that spoke of celebration and impending competition.

Knights paraded before the stands, their armour shining brilliantly, reflecting the sunlight in dazzling displays. Horses, draped in rich, embroidered caparisons, pranced and snorted, their riders guiding them with expert hands. The knights saluted their lances to the gathered nobility, drawing more cheers and applause from the enthusiastic crowd.

Children darted between the stalls, their laughter and shouts of joy echoing as they played games and admired the brightly coloured ribbons and trinkets for sale. Merchants hawking their wares, voices competing to draw attention to their exotic goods and delicious treats. Jugglers and minstrels entertained onlookers with their skills, adding to the festive atmosphere.

Amidst the celebration, Adlyn sat in his designated seat, fiddling with his cufflinks. His nerves were a storm at sea.

The sounds of the fanfare continued to swell, the music and cheers blending into a harmonious celebration of the kingdom’s unity and the start of the festivities. Yet, Euphemia was nowhere to be found.

"Where is my sister? The games will start any moment. It isn't like her to disappear just like that.” Adlyn whisper-shouted his emotions at bursting point

"Why don't I go look for her to ease your nerves, my lord?" his guard whispered reassuringly.

“Yes but make haste” Adlyn waved him off and went back to drowning himself in his worries

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"I present thee the gallant knight of the Northern lands, Ser Cregan!" snickered Lord Mormont pushing and pulling the armour of his Lord.

"Tell me, friend, why did you choose to participate in the one battle a Northman wouldn't partake in, even when promised gold?"

"Because if this lad wishes to be the underwing of my dear Coral, he’ll need to prove his wings to be steady--to me and her. Isn’t that right, future brother of mine?" interrupted Crayn, raising his lance and poking Cregan’s side affectionately.

Out of a sudden, a voice called out Crayn, and the knight found himself enveloped in a sudden, tight embrace.

“Sister, how you’ve grown! Last I saw you, you were what, five?”

“Eight,” Coral corrected with a playful grin. “And look at you now, a dashing knight!

Coral turned to the Lord's Hand, her confusion evident. “Oh my, will you be participating too? I didn’t know you could, you know not being knighted. “Indeed, I am no true knight,” he said, emphasising the word true while simultaneously gesturing his arms at her brother”, but the King insisted on my presence today.”

“Lady Euphemia,” interjected a guard gently, “you shouldn’t be here. Let’s return to your tribune. You’ll speak after the games.”

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Euphemia pouted but relented. She pulled out a delicate hairpin adorned with a small gemstone and handed it to her brother. After Adjusting a stray strand of hair that had escaped her intricate braids, she said, “Here, my blessing to you, good Ser.” With a final glance, she turned and made her way back to her seat.

Euphemia entered the tribune just as her brother began his speech, his voice resonating across the crowd, welcoming the attendees and toasting in the name of Their Majesties, the King and Queen.

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“Lords and Ladies, honored guests, and noble knights, today is a day of immense celebration and historical significance. I stand before you, filled with the pride and honor of our great kingdom, to mark this momentous occasion.

I recall vividly the day when we all emerged from our homes, hearts alight with hope, upon hearing the news that the usurper Aegon had been defeated, and our rightful King Aegon had ascended to the throne. That day signified not just the end of a tyrant’s reign, but the dawn of a new era--an era of justice, peace, and prosperity.

Today, we gather to welcome a new sovereign, a beacon of hope for our future. We stand on the precipice of a golden age, one free from the shackles of war, where our children and their children may know only the blessings of peace.

Let us raise our goblets high and toast to the health and glory of our magnificent King and gracious Queen. May their reign be long and prosperous, may their wisdom guide us, and may their hearts remain ever compassionate towards their people.

Seven blessings upon our King and Queen, seven blessings upon you all, dear friends. Let us celebrate this glorious day with joy, honor, and unwavering loyalty to our sovereigns and our realm. Together, we shall usher in a time of unparalleled peace and unity. Seven blessings to the realm!

Trumpets blared triumphantly after his last words, and knights began to enter the arena one by one. Euphemia's eyes scanned the field until she found her brother, sitting tall on a beautiful mare. His armour gleamed in the sunlight, and his lance stood tall and mighty. Beside him was Cregan for a man who always wore his ancestral fur cloak, suited the polished armour him well, giving him an imposing and regal appearance, thought Euphemia.

“First, we have Ser Gorrath from house Codd against Ser Rivan from house Clegane!” the announcer's voice echoed through the grounds.

The games began with fervour. Knights clashed, displaying their skills and courage. Men won, some got injured, and tragedy struck when a young boy from the Vale was killed, his life brutally cut short in his first tourney. Euphemia placed a hand on her stomach, hoping to calm the nausea rising within her. She watched in horror as the knight bound the boy's heels to his horse and paraded the lifeless body around the grounds for the crowd to see.

After the gruesome scene was cleared, the entrance of Cregan and her brother was announced. Cregan rode in with an air of calm authority on his horse, followed closely by her brother. Cregan marched forward towards the tribune, his gaze locking with Euphemia’s. Her thoughts swirled in a storm of emotions. Was he coming to ask for her favor, to thank them for the tourney, or was he looking at someone else? As he lifted his helmet, their eyes remained fixed on each other. A slow, confident smirk spread across his face as he spoke.

“May I have the honour of your favour, my lady? For only you can guide me to victory?”

His words cut through her swirling thoughts, creating a path where there had been none. Had he always been so eloquent, so cunning with his words? It wasn’t the request that flustered her, but the lips from which it came. In Highgarden, she had heard many sweet words, but none had affected her like this. She then decided to act for her tongue had been tied in knots. Leaning over the balcony with a poised intimacy, she tied her favor to his lance. Their eyes followed the fabric sliding down the weapon. He then pivoted his horse as she did, both turning away. She returned to her seat, her composure intact, though a hot flush ran down her body, coloring her cheeks with a mix of excitement and embarrassment.

“Hahaha, he knows how to ignite the flame for the fight,” Crayn exploded in laughter.l

“Huh?” Euphemia replied, snapping out her recent encounter.

“Asking for your favor before facing Crayn,” her brother explained. “Either he wants a true challenge or to at least take away part of his victory.”

As her brother's words drifted into her ears, a cocoon of silence enveloped her, shielding her from the chaos around her. She crossed her arms tightly over her chest, trying to protect herself from the embarrassment swelling inside. How could she have thought it meant something more? He was just trying to spite her brother. Foolish girl.

Her eyes wandered aimlessly, her mind vacant, until the crowd's gasp jolted her back to reality. Crayn had pushed Cregan off his horse, but before falling, Cregan managed to pull Crayn down with him. Euphemia and Adlyn sprang from their seats, rushing to the edge of the tribune to witness the unfolding battle on the ground. Her brother grabbed a spear, while Cregan armed himself with a massive hammer. Crayn, lighter on his feet and armed with his spear, seemed to have the advantage, deftly avoiding Cregan's heavy and slow strikes.

The two opponents charged at each other, their weapons clashing with a resounding crash. But the spear couldn't withstand the hammer's power and snapped in two, leaving Crayn with only a splintered shaft. Cregan seized the opportunity, swinging his hammer with brutal force, striking Crayn under the chin, and sending him flying backward into the arena wall.

The crowd's roar was deafening, a mix of cheers and gasps. Euphemia felt her heart seize in her chest as she watched her brother fall. Blood pounded in her ears, and she clutched the balcony rail, her knuckles white with tension. She sensed a hand reaching out from somewhere and grabbing hers. Adlyn did not look at her, his eyes were glued to the tourney, but his fingers were wrapped around her palm as he gave her a firm squeeze reminding her... Tourneys were not just a spectacle; they were a harsh reminder of the brutal reality of their world, where honour and chivalry could be overshadowed by violence and rivalry.

The scene had been cleared, and Cregan marched triumphantly, the cheers of the crowd still echoing in the air. New players were announced, and the tourney continued unabated, yet Euphemia’s mind was far from the festivities. Her thoughts were consumed by Crayn, his pained expression etched into her memory. Desperation clawed at her as she sought a way to reach him, to comfort and aid him.

“Get some time off,” her lady-in-waiting suggested softly, sensing her turmoil. Euphemia didn’t need to be told twice. Without a moment’s hesitation, she lifted her skirts and ran, heart pounding, to the chambers where her brother lay.

Bursting into the bedchamber, she was struck by the sight of Crayn. His once proud and confident form was now a mere shadow, slumped and defeated. The sight tore at her heart. Emerging from behind the door, the servants eyes widened in relief upon seeing her.

“My lady, you truly mustn’t be here. Come, let us return to the games. Your brother, if he were to--” a maester began, his voice tinged with concern.

“Leave us. All of you,” Euphemia commanded, her voice steely with determination.

The maesters and maids hurriedly collected their things, scurrying out of the room. Alone with her brother, Euphemia approached him gingerly, as if one wrong movement might shatter him completely.

“Brother,” she whispered, her voice breaking as she sank to her knees beside his bed. Her gaze fell upon the hairpin she had given him, now tucked into his belt. With trembling hands, she cradled it, her eyes closing as she devoted all her hopes and energy to her prayers. She prayed to the Father for justice, to the Mother for mercy, and to the Warrior for strength and courage.

Hours passed, and the pain in her knees grew unbearable, yet she remained, her resolve unwavering. Finally, she struggled to her feet, every movement a battle. She heard footsteps approaching the chamber--Cregan, holding a single winter rose.

“I see that you have won, but do not enter this chamber if you truly believe for one moment I wish to share your victory,” she spat, her voice dripping with disdain.

“How is he?” Cregan asked, his tone softer, almost hesitant.

“Why do you care? Weren’t you the one who caused him to be in this state?,” she retorted, fury blazin in her eyes.

“Like you assumed. I have won, and here I crown you Queen of beauty and love,” he said, ignoring her insults and extending a pink rose toward her.

“Very well,” she said, her voice laced with both defiance and hurt, as she jerked the rose out of his hand. Her fingers trembled slightly with the intensity of her emotions. "And now what? Am I to offer myself to you, to court you, to marry you?! I might have indulged the man who asked so sweetly for my favor, but not the one who knocked my brother into a sleep of death."

Euphemia stepped closer, her gaze unwavering as she locked eyes with Cregan. His breath caught in his throat, his heart pounding with anger, and a hint of undeniable attraction that he struggled to suppress. The air crackled with tension, charged with unspoken words and raw emotions.

Their faces were now mere inches apart, the warmth of their breaths mingling in the confined space between them. Euphemia could feel the heat of his presence, his eyes searching hers for forgiveness, for understanding, for absolution.

“My deepest apologies, my lady, but it was he--”

“Don’t you dare finish your words, my lord. You have done nothing but belittle and mock my family. If you are truly a man of honour, then go and swing your sword at our heads instead of playing this pathetic game of yours, for I refuse to partake in it.”

She stepped back, her expression one of cold fury. “Now, do me the honour and take your leave.”

Cregan hesitated, a strange look crossing his face. "Very well," he said, turning to leave. But as he reached the door, he paused. "If there is something you need you should know that I'll be always available for you, my lady," he said, his voice barely above a whisper.

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For three days and nights, the world around Euphemia had seemed a dark and desolate place. She had sat by Crayn’s side, holding vigil in the dimly lit chamber as he lay unmoving, his breath shallow and his skin cool to the touch. Her prayers had become a whispered mantra, a desperate plea for mercy, her hope a fragile thread that threatened to snap at any moment.

The chamber was a place of shadows and whispers, the air thick with the scent of herbs and the faint flicker of candlelight casting long, wavering shadows on the walls. The maesters had done all they could, leaving Euphemia to her silent vigil, a constant, unwavering presence beside her brother.

But as the first light of dawn crept into the room, casting its gentle glow upon his still form, something stirred. The golden rays of the sun danced across Crayn’s face, highlighting the contours of his features and bringing a touch of warmth to his pallor. Euphemia’s heart skipped a beat, daring to hope for the first time in what felt like an eternity. She leaned in closer, scarcely breathing, her eyes fixed intently on any sign of life.

Then, like the softest whisper, his eyelids fluttered. It was a tiny, almost imperceptible movement, but to Euphemia, it was everything. Her breath caught in her throat, her hands trembling as she reached out to touch his hand, her fingers brushing against his cool skin.

“Crayn?” she whispered, her voice trembling with a mix of fear and longing. The sound of her voice seemed to penetrate the silence of the room, hanging in the air like a fragile thread of hope.

Slowly, impossibly, his eyes opened, revealing the familiar depths of his gaze. His eyes, once full of life and mischief, now held a weary awareness, as if he was emerging from a deep, dark abyss. Tears sprang to Euphemia’s eyes, blurring her vision as she saw the spark of recognition in his eyes.

“You’ve awakened. It has been three days. Thank the Seven,” Euphemia murmured, joy and gratitude flooding her heart as she gazed at her brother’s now-open eyes.

Crayn’s response was a low, pained groan. Hearing her mention the period of his absence brought a surge of frustration to his still-weary mind. “Allow me to apologize in advance for the words I am about to use, but that fucking barbarian cunt.”

“You are forgiven because I can’t help but agree with you,” Euphemia replied, a faint smile touching her lips despite the gravity of the situation. The relief of seeing him awake overshadowed any shock she might have felt at his harsh words.

Crayn’s face contorted with the effort of speaking, his voice a raspy whisper. “I--I did this bet with him. If he knocked me out for three days, he could have my blessing for the two of you .”

“U-us?” Euphemia stuttered, eyes widening in confusion. She had no idea a pact had been made, let alone that it involved her so directly.

Crayn realized at that moment that she was completely oblivious to the plans that had been made above her head. The weight of this knowledge settled heavily on his chest. He stared at her, seeing the innocence and confusion in her eyes, and took a deep breath, steeling himself to explain the situation. He had to set this right, for he was an honest man.

#cregan x euphemia #cregan x oc #cregan fanfiction #cregan stark #house of the dragon #hotd fanfic #oc!tyrell #hotd fanfiction #hotd fandom #winters thorn

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the-garbanzo-annex-jr · 8 days

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by Matti Friedman

The little book may have been kept by a Jewish family in Bamiyan, the curator suggested, with different people adding new texts as the years passed. The hands of at least five scribes are evident in the pages. They were influenced by ideas and writing coming from both major Jewish centers of the time—Babylon, which is modern-day Iraq, and the Land of Israel, where Jewish sovereignty had been lost seven centuries before and whose people were now under Islamic rule.

The previously unknown poem shows the influence of a familiar biblical text, the erotic Song of Songs, according to Professor Shulamit Elizur of the Hebrew University, the member of the research team in charge of the poem’s analysis. But it also shows the impact of an esoteric Jewish book that wasn’t part of the Bible, known as the Apocalypse of Zerubbabel. This book is thought to have originated in the early 600s, when a brutal war between Byzantium and the Sasanian empire of Persia generated desperate messianic hopes among many Jews. Whoever wrote the poem in the Afghan prayer book had clearly read the Apocalypse, Elizur said—giving us a glimpse of a Jewish spiritual world both familiar and foreign to the coreligionists of the Bamiyan Jews in our own times, 1,300 years later. The previously unknown poem shows the influence of a familiar biblical text, the erotic Song of Songs, according to Professor Shulamit Elizur of the Hebrew University. (Museum of the Bible)

Chapters of the book’s journey from Afghanistan to Washington are unclear—some because they’re simply unknown even to the experts, and others because that’s the way the people in the murky manuscript market often prefer it.

When the book was discovered by the Hazara militiaman, according to Hepler, the tribesmen didn’t know exactly what it was but understood it was Jewish and assumed it was sacred. The local leader had it wrapped in cloth and preserved in a special box. At one point in the late 1990s, it seems to have been offered unsuccessfully for sale in Dallas, Texas, though it’s unclear if the book itself actually left Afghanistan at the time.

After the al-Qaeda attacks of 9/11 triggered the U.S. invasion of Afghanistan, the book disappeared for about a decade. In 2012 it resurfaced in London, where it was photographed by the collector and dealer Lenny Wolfe.

Any story about Afghan manuscripts ends up leading to Wolfe, an Israeli born in Glasgow, Scotland. I went to see him at his office in Jerusalem, an Ottoman-era basement where the tables and couches are cluttered with ancient Greek flasks and Hebrew coins minted in the Jewish revolt against Rome in the 130s CE. It was Wolfe who helped facilitate the sale of the larger Afghan collection to Israel’s National Library. “The Afghan documents are fascinating,” he told me, “because they give us a window into Jewish life on the very edge of the Jewish world, on the border with China.”

When Wolfe encountered the little prayer book, he told me it had already been on the London market for several years without finding a buyer. In 2012, the year he photographed the book, he said it was offered to him at a price of $120,000 by two sellers, one Arab and the other Persian. But the Israeli institution he hoped would buy the book turned it down, he told me, so the sale never happened. Not long afterwards, according to his account, he heard that buyers representing the Green family had paid $2.5 million. When I asked what explained the difference in price, he answered, “greed,” and wouldn’t say more. (Hepler of the Museum of the Bible wouldn’t divulge the purchase price or the estimated value of the manuscript, but said Wolfe’s figure was “wrong.”)

The collection amassed by the Green family eventually became the Museum of the Bible, which opened in Washington in 2017. The museum has been sensitive to criticism related to the provenance of its artifacts since a scandal erupted involving thousands of antiquities that turned out to have been looted or improperly acquired in Iraq and elsewhere in the Middle East. The museum’s founder, Steve Green, has said he first began collecting as an enthusiast, not an expert, and was taken in by some of the dubious characters who populate the antiquities market. “I trusted the wrong people to guide me, and unwittingly dealt with unscrupulous dealers in those early years,” he said after a federal investigation. In March 2020 the museum agreed to repatriate 11,000 artifacts to Iraq and Egypt.

#afghanistan #museum of the bible #codex #ancient book

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zcorners120 · 2 years

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perfume

haven't charles in a while so here we are <3

charles leclerc x fem!reader MASTERLIST

synopsis; you got a new perfume, and someone seems to be a fan.

warnings; brief mention of sex

Looking curiously through the many isles, beautiful glass ornaments sealed behind the glass, trapped. You had just ran out of your favourite perfume, and decided to switch it up a bit.

The intricate bottles and their luxurious names appealed to you, but still deciding to wander around. You were no expert with perfumes, but like something vanilla-y, warm and alive. Looking around a bit, you make eye contact with a sales assistant who warms up at the sight of you, hurrying over.

"Hiya! Anything I can help you with today?" She spoke softly, crossing her hands over her black uniform.

"Yep! I was looking for a new scent, something electric, vanilla-y." Explaining to the associate, her eyes light up as she mentally finds a perfect perfume for you. "Preferably in a bigger bottle." You added.

When finding a new scent you loved, you made sure to get a big bottle; associating the scent to the time of your life that you wore it in.

"I have here, 'Valentino Born In Roma Donna.' It's got vanilla tones, very seductive and strong but not in an over powering way.” She explains, as you nod your head.

“That’s perfect, thank you for your help.” You smiled, watching her package the bottle into a gift bag with a little bow.

You walk out swinging your multiple shopping bags around, ready to get some lunch with a friend.

After a hearty lunch, you finally made it through the doors of your apartment.

“Charles? You home?” Calling out his name, to hear nothing but a blaring silence.

You shrugged, clanking your keys down onto the counter and placing the bags down.

After having some light dinner, you walk up the wooden stairs to get ready for bed; being met with Charles who was passed out under the thick blankets and duvets.

“Amour?” You whispered, poking him around, watching him fidget.

Rolling your eyes, you started to get ready as you were attending a club appearance with friends. Some light makeup here and there, and a stunning black sparkly dress.

You finished up, satisfied as you smiled in the mirror. With a quick hair toss and a spritz of your new perfume you were ready to head out; with Charles still passed out.

Walking up to him quietly you landed a light kiss on his forehead, accidentally waking him up in the process.

“Bonjo- Cherié you smell amazing..” A half murmured confession escaping his soft lips, eyes peeling open.

“Grazi. I have to go, but please sleep.” You said, about to walk away just before he catches your hand.

“Who cares about some club appearance? Come stay with me and we can have fun alone.” He winks, kissing up your hand.

“No, I have to go!” You laughed, watching his attempts fail miserably.

“God- What is that perfume?” He threw his head back, absorbed in the scent as he started laughing.

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sgiandubh · 11 months

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Do you think he does different types of promo to attract all the different crowds?

Dear Promo Anon,

Not only I think he does that, I also happen to think he (or anyone seriously hoping to sell anything other than snake oil) should do exactly that.

The problem is not the logical correlation between what you want to sell and the people to whom you want to sell it. The first problem is the lack of balance between your way of interacting with your different target groups, which could lead to a very fuzzy brand image. Both of your products and of yourself, who are their creator and main promoter.

Promoting a brand without a clear set of main ideas and values is very likely to have a negative impact on your sales. Show them biceps, sea, sex (?) and sun galore is all fine and dandy for the younger crowd (and the LGBT+ one, btw). But showing at the same time that you can be a gentleman (please, for the love of Saruman, get rid of those rings! that woman doesn't know what she's talking about!) should be at least on par with the Lustfest promise you ventilate to your other segment. Possible message being: working hard and playing hard - you can have the best of both worlds (or at least try).

The second problem is that S's brand is.. ehrm... way too personal. Too approachable (I already mentioned the Costco Hugfest) for a rabid fandom. That goes both ways, btw, because many (on both sides of the Great Divide) honestly feel they own a bit of S. At the same time, he is also JAMMF to many people in here, who imagine he has almost superhuman qualities (most probably not the case). That is exhilarating and empowering, until it's not. One or three or twenty faux-pas later, people will feel the savage urge to spit on the idol. A simple matter of collective instinct, but a very tricky situation for S.

The third problem are the side players. I am not talking about AN or CB or TMcG or the Fitness Harem. I am talking about the Trolls, who really don't do him any favor. Nothing worse for his brand potential than lascivious comments - let's suppose you are a major distributor's marketing expert and you land on That Blog, where the owner shares publicly her dream of licking her way from (how was it?) LHR to GLA to the Highlands to the ends of the known Universe, for a chance of God knows what. What would you write in that memo to the CEO? 'Yes, please: immediately place ALL his booze upfront near the cashier, because the man is an idol to a bunch of fifty-something women who dream the impossible dream?' You think I am exaggerating? Try googling for SRH tumblr and see the first results (😱). These people are visible and that visibility directly informs the interaction between SS and its potential business partners. Especially when your Partner Everyday thought blasting a sizeable chunk of OL's Tumblr fandom in Vanity Fair was a clever strategy for The Win - things like this invite (unwanted) attention.

I pleaded for diversification of the marketing strategy and for a more sophisticated approach and I welcome the change, Anon. The only thing I would like you to take home from this very long answer is simple:

Social Media is just Social Media. The glitz, the glam, the superficial stardust, the Truman Show where it never rains.

Real Life is Real Life. We only see glimpses, speculate on it, have a more or less educated guess and if we are lucky enough, some tidbits to chew on.

Progressively, the very unprofessional (bantering) Social Media strategy has been replaced with an account strategy based on product promotion. Convenient, when you do not (for reasons X, Y and Z) want to discuss what you feel is private and likely to remain so, for a while.

That's about it, Anon. If you still have questions, you can always pop in here. I promise I won't charge a retainer, out of my good heart.

#Anon #BoozeWars

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soon-palestine · 5 months

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Oxfam experts, together with cocoa farmers, will be at the World Cocoa Conference in Brussels (21-24 April), taking place against a backdrop of unprecedented production shortfalls and skyrocketing cocoa prices, which topped $11,000 per metric ton for the first time.

Chocolate giants have already raised prices for consumers to offset rising cocoa costs and, despite years of soaring profits and massive payouts to shareholders, have consistently pushed back on anything that could reduce their profit margins. New Oxfam analysis has found: - Lindt, Mondelēz, and Nestlé together raked in nearly $4 billion in profits from chocolate sales in 2023. Hershey’s confectionary profits totaled $2 billion last year. - The four corporations paid out on average 97 percent of their total net profits to shareholders in 2023. - The collective fortunes of the Ferrero and Mars families, who own the two biggest private chocolate corporations, surged to $160.9 billion during the same period. This is more than the combined GDPs of Ghana and Ivory Coast, which supply most cocoa beans.

Decades of low prices have made farmers poorer and hampered their ability to hire workers or invest in their farms, limiting bean yield. Old cocoa trees are particularly vulnerable to disease and extreme weather. Many farmers are abandoning cocoa for other crops, or selling their land to illegal miners.

Speaking ahead of the conference, Oxfam’s Policy Advisor Bart Van Besien said: “It’s ironic —the cocoa price explosion could have been averted if corporations had paid farmers a fair price and helped them make their farms more resilient to extreme weather. And it’s hypocritical —chocolate giants are paying high prices now that the market demands it, but have pushed back every single time that cocoa farmers have. The only way forward is fairly rewarding farmers for their hard work.”

And Ismael Pomasi, Chairman of Ghana’s Cocoa Abrabopa Association, said: "Nothing is more demotivating —all my hard work on the farm barely pays off. Between battling pests and the drought that is killing my cocoa trees, I'm really struggling. I wish I could afford irrigation. If the multibillion-dollar chocolate industry paid fair prices for cocoa, I could actually tackle these problems and make a decent living."

Oxfam spokespersons and farmers available for interviews in Brussels:Nana Kwasi Barning Ackay, project officer at SEND Ghana and Coordinator of the Ghana Civil Society Cocoa Platform (GCCP) (English) Ismael Pomasi, Chairman of Ghana’s Cocoa Abrabopa Association (English) Anouk Franck, Policy Advisor on Business and Human Rights, Oxfam Novib (Dutch, English) Bart Van Besien, Policy Advisor, Oxfam Belgium (Dutch, English, French)

Key dates: Oxfam spokespersons and farmers will come together to hand out chocolate produced by Ghana’s Women in Cocoa Cooperative (Cocoa Mmaa), and will be available for interviews and photos. 7:30-9:00am CET on 22 April at Place d’Albertine, in front of the World Cocoa Conference.

#Oxfam #cococa beans #nestlé #brussels

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aronarchy · 5 months

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The extent of Russia’s influence in Sudan goes beyond its involvement in the current war. It’s not only fueling war in Sudan but it’s the reason Russia is able to continue its war in Ukraine and other places despite being sanctioned by the West. Russia is surviving western sanctions by exploiting, smuggling gold and aiding the Sudanese Transitional Military Council (TMC) in the suppression of the pro-civilian led government movement.

In 2014, Putin was vocal about creating an economic plan to circumvent potential Western sanctions tied to the Ukraine war. By 2017, they began extending lifelines to autocrats, and unsurprisingly, former Sudanese President Omar Al-Bashir joined Putin’s economic pipeline. After a meeting between the two presidents, Russian geologists and mineralogists employed by Meroe Gold arrived in Sudan.

The Russian companies, including Wagner, a private military company linked to Russia and frequently engaged in conflicts worldwide, began establishing a presence in Sudan. Notably, Wagner leader is under US sanctions, accused of meddling in the 2020 US elections. In 2020, under Trump administration, the group was sanctioned for its heavy exploitation of Sudan’s natural resources. The exploitation was so evident that they literally had to be sanctioned by Trump, which is quite surprising.

In 2019, following Al-Bashir’s overthrow, Wagner transitioned to striking deals with the Rapid Support Forces militia general, Hemeti. This militia, formerly known as Janjaweed and implicated in the Darfur genocide, received weapons and training. Wagner, in return, gained access to smuggled gold and devised plans to maintain control, ultimately contributing to today’s proxy war in Sudan.

The method of gold smuggling involved disguising it as flying cookies and concealing the smuggled gold beneath Russian cookie boxes. 🤣

In 2022, @/nimaelbagir a Sudanese journalist and CNN’s Chief International Investigative Correspondent went to a Russian owned gold mining facility in Sudan. Watch her report here ⬇️

Full report here:

In June 2022, the Darfur Bar Association (DBA) launched an investigation and confirmed Wagner mercenaries presence in South Darfur after its attack on gold miners in South Darfur. The investigation also revealed that the Transitional Military council (SAF+RSF) knew about the presence of Wagner in Sudan and in 2019 a copy of the report was actually sent to then prime minister Hamadok.

The DBA investigation also revealed how the UAE is involved in Sudan and its role in the current war. There’s also an extensive investigation report on the role of the UAE in Sudan by the New York Times and the Wall Street Journal that proves the UAE involvement in Sudan.

How are the UAE and Russia linked you might ask?

1) Most Sudanese gold passes through the United Arab Emirates. Unofficial data from the United Arab Emirates reported that over $1.7bn of Sudanese gold landed in Dubai in 2021, just under half the value of all the country’s exports. But there is little accurate data tracking it after it arrives in the UAE (arrives via Russia). Most industry exports reckon that official figures account for less than a quarter of total gold sales. Khartoum’s central bank recorded gold exports of 26.4 tonnes from January to September in 2021 but estimates over 100 tonnes would have been smuggled out during that period. (Africa Confidential)

Amdjarass, the Chadian town just across the Sudanese border, is the base from which the UAE is running an operation supposedly to help Sudanese refugees. But behind the façade of what the UAE maintains are humanitarian efforts, lies covert weapons, drones, and medical treatment to injured RSF fighters. (The Africa Report)

A U.S. Ally Promised to Send Aid to Sudan. It Sent Weapons Instead. (WSJ)

The New York Times report on how the UAE is further involved ⬇️

2) In April 2023, following the onset of the war in Sudan, the Wagner group was exposed by CNN for allegedly supplying missiles to the RSF in their conflict against the Sudanese armed forces (SAF). The arms came through the UAE under the guise of humanitarian aid for Sudanese refugees in Chad. These armaments were destined for the UAE’s local proxy, the RSF, in Sudan’s western region. In addition, CNN exposed that the shipments of surface-to-air missiles provided by Wagner were destined for the RSF via flights shuttling the hardware from Latakia, Syria, to Khadim, Libya, and then airdropped to northwestern Sudan, where the RSF enjoys a strong presence. This support from Wagner is considered a significant factor contributing to the RSF’s continuation of the war and their reported atrocities against Sudanese civilians, including killing, looting, sexual violence, and mass destruction of Sudan’s infrastructure.

The satellite images from CNN and the open-source group “All Eyes On Wagner,” provide evidence of an escalated Wagner presence at the bases of Khalifa Haftar, the leader of a Libyan militia supported by Wagner, in Libya. This heightened presence was purportedly in preparation to assist the RSF militia against the SAF.

Full report here:

3) There is evidence that the UAE has been funding Wagner in Libya to help reduce the financial burden on Russia for its Libyan operations and has been deploying these forces to prop up its ally, General Khalifa Haftar, who has been fighting the UN-recognized Government of National Accord in Tripoli. The report that the UAE is funding Wagner in Libya actually came from the US department of defense, which again is a surprise considering the close alliance of the US and the UAE.

East Africa Counterterrorism Operation, North and West Africa Counterterrorism Operation Quarterly Report to Congress, July 1, 2020‒September 30, 2020

#repost of someone else’s content #twitter repost #sudan #keep eyes on sudan #sudanese genocide #uae #russia #putin #wagner #rsf #proxy war #genocide #free sudan #liberate sudan

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ausetkmt · 1 year

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In addition to AI, the 10 Million Names Project is employing oral histories and archived documents to help identify 10 million enslaved people in pre- and post-colonial America.

When journalist Dorothy Tucker first learned about the 10 Million Names genealogical project, it helped amplify memories of long car journeys from Chicago to “Down South” in the 1960’s, where her mother’s family owned land.

The Mississippi property purchased by her great-grandfather George Trice in 1881 was special for several reasons. First, nobody’s really sure how a formerly enslaved man was able to purchase 160 acres, but Trice came up with the $800. And every time Tucker and her family drove down to Shannon, Mississippi each summer to visit relatives, it was more than just a vacation.

“I'd wake up in the morning and have breakfast at my aunt's house. I'd go a few feet down the road and have lunch at my great-aunt's house. And then I'd play outside at my cousin's house,” says Tucker, an award-winning investigative journalist with CBS2 WBBM-TV in Chicago. “It was that way all day long. Every house was owned by a relative. I thought everybody lived like this. I thought everybody had land and stuff that was theirs.”

Tucker finally got specific details about how and why that land was purchased during the final months of her term as president of the National Association of Black Journalists. In early 2023, NABJ Board Member Paula Madison, a retired NBC Universal executive, informed the group about an offshoot of the Georgetown Memory Project, the initiative that unearthed information about the 1838 sale of enslaved Africans to fund Georgetown University. The 10 Million Names Project was created to recover the names of an estimated 10 million men, women and children of African descent who were enslaved in pre- and post-colonial America between the 1500’s and 1865. By engaging with expert genealogists, cultural organizations, and family historians both Black and white, the initiative hopes to provide more African Americans with information that only formally began to be captured for their ancestors in the 1870 United States Census.

Up until that year, enslaved Africans and their descendants were only acknowledged as the property of their owners. If their existence was noted, it was in the form of sales documents or as catalogued property in civil records. Also, the relatives of enslavers often maintain troves of information about those purchased and sold off that would otherwise be completely lost.

(This database is helping to uncover the lost ancestry of enslaved African Americans.)

Much of the work will be dependent on oral histories passed down thru generations of families, and researchers of the 10 Million Names Project also hope that more white families will aid in the search by making familial records, like letters and pages from family bibles, available to them.

Tucker, who ended her term as NABJ president during that organization’s annual conference in August, revealed at the awards banquet in Birmingham, Alabama that she’d been able to learn more about her great grandfather’s real-estate ventures, through a collaboration between NABJ and the New England Historical Genealogical Society’s American Ancestors initiative.

The 10 Million Names Project was formally launched at the convention. Tucker considers it an especially timely parting gift to her journalistic colleagues. As societal divisions along racial lines widen, hate crimes continue, and attempts to ban books and curtail African American studies programs in schools and universities increase, strengthening historical knowledge is urgently important for Black Americans, Tucker says.

“I think that the ability to tell these stories and to know them is so critically important,” she says. “When you know your personal story, then as a journalist, it gives you the perspective to dig deeper when you're doing the next story, whether it’s about the school board or about Ukraine or the next elections. You know, these stories are all tools that are really good for all of us.”

How the initiative evolved

The man who is the catalyst for the Georgetown Memory Project and 10 Million Names says he’s never really been interested in investigating his own family tree.

“To me, genealogy was sort of like butterfly collecting,” says Richard Cellini, a faculty fellow at Harvard University and founding director of the Harvard Legacy of Slavery Remembrance Program. “It’s impressive because of the amount of effort invested into it. But I never quite understood the point.”

Cellini was born in 1963 in Central Pennsylvania to a Penn State University professor and homemaker mother. His Catholic upbringing steered him to Georgetown University and an eventual decade-long law career before pivoting toward the software and technology realm. In 2015, Cellini learned that his alma mater had formed a working group to explore the sale of 272 men, woman, and children in 1838 to rescue the university from bankruptcy. As a white American of European descent, he says he did not live with or know many Black people growing up, going to school or during his legal and technology careers, so the initiative opened a window in his mind.

When Georgetown President John DeGioia invited alumni to weigh in, Cellini wrote an email asking one simple question that had nothing to do with the university. He wanted to know, “What happened to the people?”

Cellini says a senior member of the working group wrote back to say that research had concluded that all of the enslaved men, women, and children had died fairly quickly after arriving in the swamps of Louisiana where they had been transported.

“And I remember just staring at that email, even though I didn't really know much about the history of slavery or African American history, and just thinking that just doesn't make any sense,” Cellini says. Curiosity drove him to form an independent research group, funded initially through his own credit card and then from other Georgetown alumni who eagerly offered financial backing. To date, the Georgetown Memory Project has fully identified 236 of the 272 enslaved people sold by the university's leaders. Of those identified through archival records, the project has verified more than 10,000 of their direct descendants.

“The 1838 slave sale at Georgetown brought home to me, again, they were real people with real families and real names,” Cellini says. “More than 50 percent of them were children. William was the youngest, and he was six months old. And Daniel was the oldest at 80. Len was sickly, and Stephen was lame. I mean, this is all from the original documentation. From that moment on, I just couldn't get it out of my head.”

The gathering of history

The genealogists and historians connected with the project suggest that the richest vein of information may well be in the oral histories they’ve already begun gathering through hundreds of interviews. They contain fascinating stories like the ones that Kendra Field’s grandmother Odevia Brown used to tell about her African American and Native American forebears in Oklahoma. When Field was in high school, she never really liked history classes, but she always loved her grandmother’s stories.

“It wasn't until I got to college that I realized, thanks to a wonderful professor, that my grandmother's stories were history,” Field says. After the death of her father, Field began to travel back to those historically Black Oklahoma towns to explore her African American and Creek Indian heritage. Now in her career as a historian, author and professor at Tufts University, Field also has taken on the role of chief historian for 10 Million Names.

Technology, including the use of artificial intelligence programs, is allowing project investigators to do quicker, more efficient searches for information. Field says that can happen by identifying the location of plantation ledgers, advertisements, and receipts from auctions. “Particularly, there's been a lot of advancements made in optical character recognition, which allows researchers to identify names and handwritten records,” Field says.

Prior to this, a researcher had to find the document, transcribe the information, and then pivot to another database to go deeper. But with the development of other genealogical data sets such as Enslaved.org, locating individuals and making connections becomes much easier. “So that means we can move closer to that 10 million much more quickly than we would have been able to even a decade ago,” Field says. Also, the collection at the Library of Congress, “Born in Slavery: Slave Narratives from the Federal Writers' Project, 1936 to 1938” has yielded important clues from the estimated 2,300 people interviewed during that project.

(The search for lost slave ships led this diver on an extraordinary journey.)

Though identifying 10 million people who were never meant to be known as human beings may sound like a staggering task, the people behind the initiative believe it’s a totally attainable goal—even amidst all the current cultural and ideological turmoil in American society. That’s because, Cellini says, there are certain inalienable truths in this world.

“John Adams said that facts are stubborn things. You know, our Black brothers and sisters have always known their history and white people have always tried to prevent Black people from learning that history. What's new here is that white people are now trying to prevent other white people from learning this history.”

Cellini believes that Black Americans aren’t the only ones who want or need to know the full story. “It's white people who hunger for knowledge of that history, as well. It’s our duty to engage in determined resistance, to strike repeated blows for the truth. And nothing is more stubborn than facts.”

And like journalist Tucker, Cellini believes the search is infinitely for the benefit of the whole of society.

“The hard part isn't the finding,” Cellini says of the effort. “The hard part is the looking. But when we look, we find. And when we find, the whole world changes.”

#Africans #Black Lives Matter #Black Lineage #american freedmen #Black Freedmen #Black Americans #10 million enslaved Americans' names are missing from history. AI is helping identify them #10 million names project

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mariacallous · 4 days

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In an online conversation with Elon Musk on Monday,former PresidentDonald Trump said he’d swiftly reopen the Arctic National Wildlife Refuge to oil drilling if he’s elected again.

Trump also suggested that the refuge in northeast Alaska could become one of the world’s top oil producers, even rivaling Saudi Arabia.

But the oil potential in the 19-million-acre refuge is not at all comparable to Saudi Arabia, though an official with the U.S. Geological Survey said Tuesday the Arctic Refuge coastal plain does contain significant pools of oil.

Trump, in the conversation on X, also blasted President Joe Biden’s administration for halting oil activity in the refuge, after the Trump administration issued exploration leases there in a lease sale in 2021 — though that sale generated few bids, including zero from major oil companies.

Before that, Alaska leaders and congressional Republicans long dreamed of seeing oil development in the refuge’s coastal plain, but conservation groups and many Democratic leaders successfully fended off those efforts for decades.

In the conversation with Musk, Trump said the refuge “could be bigger than Saudi Arabia. But they went in and they terminated it.”

“And I’ll get it going very quickly,” he said. “Because not only is it big for Alaska. I mean, you talk about economic development. That for the United States, I mean, that is, they say, bigger than Saudi Arabia or the same size, and pure, really good stuff.”

However, OPEC estimates put Saudi Arabia’s proven oil reserves at well over 200 billion barrels of oil. It has produced well over 150 billion barrels of oil over time, OPEC figures show.

The refuge’s coastal plain, where the lease sale was held, contains an estimated fraction of that amount, or 10.4 billion barrels of “technically recoverable oil” on average, the Congressional Research Service reported this summer.

Dave Houseknecht, senior research geologist for the U.S. Geological Survey and a leading expert on the topic, said ANWR’s oil potential is nowhere near Saudi Arabia’s.

“There’s no way,” Houseknecht said in an interview on Tuesday. “Not by any imagination.”

The Arctic refuge coastal plain estimates are based on a 1998 USGS report that Houseknecht helped develop. The USGS report was based on old 1980s seismic data that has not been updated by the federal government, he said.

Though it’s no Saudi Arabia, the report estimates that the refuge contains pools of oil that are comparable to large discoveries made in recent years in Alaska, far west of the refuge, Houseknecht said.

Some pools of oil could hold between 500 million to 750 million barrels of oil, Houseknecht said.

That puts them about the size of Willow, the controversial ConocoPhillips oil development that the Biden administration approved last year, and that climate activists called a “climate bomb.”

The biggest pools in the refuge might hold about 2 billion to 4 billion barrels of technically recoverable oil, Houseknecht said.

That’s about the size of a pool of oil associated with the Pikka field, which is largely located on state land, he said. The Pikka discovery hasn’t generated the same national attention as Willow.

Oil production in the refuge would nonetheless face economic hurdles, Houseknecht said.

While some of the oil accumulations there are big, they’re not all connected, he said.

“The simplest way to think about it is it’s not all one big pool (in the refuge) that can be readily developed from a single location,” he said. “So that would ding the economic aspects.”

“But it’s still economically viable because the 1002 area is not a big area. It’s 1.5 million acres,” he said, referring to the refuge’s coastal plain that’s often called the 1002 area.

Trump in 2017 took a major step toward potential drilling in the refuge.

He signed the Tax Cut and Jobs Act after Alaska’s Republican delegation managed to add a provision for at least two lease sales in the refuge, a first.

But the federal government’s first-ever lease sale in 2021 indicated that — at least at the time — the oil industry had little interest in exploring the controversial area.

It came during a time of low oil prices, with many major banks saying they would not finance new Arctic oil and gas projects. And Joe Biden, the president-elect at the time, had said he opposed drilling in the refuge, another obstacle.

The sale produced a paltry $14.4 million in bids. That was a poor start to the federal government’s estimate that the two lease sales could generate $1.8 billion in revenue.

Only two small private companies submitted bids and later relinquished their leases under the Biden administration.

That left the main bidder, the Alaska Industrial Development and Export Authority. The state agency is suing after the Biden administration canceled its leases last year, saying the federal government did not properly conduct an environmental review before the lease sale.

Under the 2017 law, a second lease sale must be held before Dec. 22 of this year.

The Biden administration has said it will determine by the end of September how the refuge oil program will proceed.

Will the administration hold a lease sale in time?

“We will follow the law,” said Melissa Schwartz, a spokesperson with the Interior Department, in an email on Tuesday.

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obstinatecondolement · 1 year

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This is something I did look into a few years ago without any luck, but does anyone know of anywhere I could buy a Navajo floor spindle from a Native seller? I can find any amount of them for sale from various general spinning/weaving/etc. suppliers, but I am reluctant to buy a tool relating to an indigenous crafting tradition from Some Company (or even Some Etsy Shop run by a non-Native) that does not remotely benefit the (very marginalised) community that the tool originates from.

I am a hobbyist spinner who does not make any money from spinning, and would not try to exoticise the fact that I was doing a Navajo style of spinning or position myself as an expert in it. I am interested by using a large spindle supported on the floor to spin largely because it looks more ergonomic and I am interested in learning styles of spinning that are new to me.

Also though, if anyone is aware of if the general consensus among Navajo craftspeople is that they would rather that non-Natives do not try to learn this kind of spinning, and can point me in the way of any information along those lines, that would be appreciated, because I do not want try to take ownership of things that are not mine to take.

I am also unclear about whether "Navajo spindle" is a term that is being used by non-Native spinners as an umbrella to group together various traditions of spinning? I am (passingly) familiar with the spinning and weaving traditions in the Navajo community, but there is something on The Woolery's website called a Blackfoot Spindle, which, has the following in its product description:

These Blackfoot Spindles were produced in coordination with Marilyn Wright (featured in Summer 2013 Spin Off magazine). They are handmade with a notch cut into the shaft that helps facilitate this almost lost spinning technique. Includes illustrated instruction pamphlet. This technique of spinning was almost lost. At the turn of the last century the tribal elders of the Blackfoot Confederacy declared that all spindles should be burned and that there would be no more spinning. A very relaxed way to spin on a unique spindle. Order this Navajo style spindle for sale today.

Like... I am not saying that all members of the Blackfeet Nation would be like "Well, tribal elders said a century ago that there was to be no more spinning, so I'm glad that tradition is (almost?) gone, actually" or that they wouldn't want it to be revived (or that there aren't efforts within that community to revive it that I am not aware of), but it feels to me like it does not fall to non-Native spinners to revive or ~save~ this style of spinning the way that this ad copy seems to be suggesting and that it's kind of a patronizing thing to imply.

Also, given that many spinners refer to chain-plying as "Navajo-plying" when Navajo spinners say that it is not something that originates in their spinning tradition, this leads me to believe that the term "Navajo spindle" may be used in a way by non-Natives that is flattening out and equating diverse spinning cultures originating in the Americas.

Anyway, the last time I was exploring this I kind of lost steam and decided to make a one-off donatation to Adopt a Native Elder to send a yarn bundle to a traditional Navajo weaver instead, so that I was actively supporting a non-hypothetical Navajo craftsperson in making a living from their crafts instead of just indulging in navel gazing about whether making my own spindle was a more respectful way to engage in their crafting traditions than buying a "Navajo" spindle from Some Company would be, which may well be what I land on doing again, but if there is a Native spinner out there who sells spindles I would love to support their business.

#spinning #spindle spinning #hand spinning #tdf seems like as likely a time as any to find someone who actually knows the answers to these questions #also I am sorry if I am overthinking this and I stg I am not trying to seem like I'm such a great guy for having these concerns #I just get bad vibes from the idea of buying a 'najavo' tool from someone who has no cultural ties to the navajo people #particularly when native crafts are often outright stolen by non-natives #and traditional craftspeople often live in incredible poverty

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pinkhairedlily · 10 months

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tadaima

sharing my piece for @sasusakubpzine which i'm so grateful to have been selected for. we are holding leftover sales so get a copy now if you haven't yet! 🛒-> https://t.co/DM3t6gqkDo

“Tadaima!”

Sasuke heard this greeting many times when they were kids. After classes, after missions, after errands. Everyone had families to come home to. Only Sakura had this privilege in their team, her parents still alive, but never once did he catch her uttering it.

He envied her regardless. However casual and mundane the word was to her, he craved to use it. Maybe letters strung together could bring back his dead.

But it was Sakura, his anchor after the war, who made it possible again. “Tadaima.”

And today, he’ll hear her say it to her family.

Only that, she isn’t herself. He sees her plant a longer kiss on Sarada’s forehead and feels her squeeze his arm a little tighter, signs of her anxiety bursting to the brim.

“We can go another time.”

Sakura shakes her head and grins her way out of his silent prodding. “Let’s take advantage of this while we can. A complete family. I can show them that.”

A complete family. Sasuke always thought Sakura had it easy, but not all families mean home.

x x x

Sasuke hears the Harunos before he sees them. Their noise is as loud as their eclectic hair styles and colors, but they quiet down when they register their arrival. The grand entrance ends on a neutral note when Sakura beckons him to the empty seats beside her parents at the center table. Hot seats.

Kizashi and Mebuki manage lukewarm nods towards the three of them. Not so much as a kiss or hug for Sakura or an awed expression for Sarada inside her baby wrap. Sasuke doesn’t know which of the two irks him more.

The luncheon goes well for the first half. Everyone keeps to their little conversations. The meat is a little too hard and the broth a little too rich, but nothing out of ordinary. Perhaps it’s the food coma that makes some cousins plant their attention on them.

“Did you learn love potions at that ninja academy?” Eyeliner Guy asks. “Couldn’t think of any other way.”

Sakura smiles. “No, but I'm an expert with poisons.”

The death threat flies over their heads.

“You probably baby-trapped him, no?” Thick Lipstick side-eyes him. “What a catch.”

Sasuke tries to smile, if only for his wife’s sake, but his annoyance seeps through his reply. “Great theories, but we actually met at the academy, fell in love later on, and got married. Contrary to what you think, Sakura is quite the catch.” He takes a sip of his now-cold tea. “I’m sure you’ll find someone in your forties. Don’t lose hope.”

Sakura almost chokes on her dango. “She’s in her twenties, Sasuke,” she chastises under her breath.

“Such a shame we didn’t see your marriage registry. We tried to find it, you know,” Green Mohawk smacks his lips, “for fun.”

“We got married outside the village, but we appreciate your effort.” He hopes his cold tone diffuses their burning curiosity, bordering on assault.

Some old people gravitate towards their seats upon hearing this. “We heard you came from traveling.”

“Ah, yes, the Land of Flowers was so beautiful.” Sakura tries to turn the conversation light, but no one takes her bait.

“Wasn’t that too dangerous during your pregnancy?” Paper Fan Grandma asks.

“You should’ve been more careful, Sakura,” Mebuki chastises, “And you should’ve known better, boy.”

“It’s Sasuke,” Sakura butts in, “And Mom, I’m a doctor. I can take care of myself.”

Mebuki not remembering his name doesn’t bother him as much as her occupation escaping them.

“So what’s your work, Sasuke?” Cigarette Smoking Uncle asks.

Sasuke has half a mind to use amaterasu on the nicotine stick. “I have duties beyond the borders of the village.”

“Ah, you’re always traveling then?” Paper Fan Grandma loves to gasp a lot.

“You could put it like that.”

“And you leave her? With a baby?”

“Sakura is very important in the village. She’s the hospital director.”

The three cousins sneer loudly at this while the older group does not feign their disappointment and tut-tuts. Sakura’s grip on his thigh tightens.

“This is why I keep telling her to focus on being a housewife,” Mebuki tells her husband as if Sakura is not in front of them. “The horrors of being a single mom! Did you hear what happened to Ayako? In debt and cheated on!”

Sakura is a strong woman.

She never backs out from a fight or cowers in fear. She faces all her battles head-on. She has grown out of the shells of her childhood and adolescence and into these beautiful myriad of forms: a healer, a soldier, a mother, a wife.

“I can balance my work —”

But this Sakura’s voice wavers and he sees how one of Konoha’s pillars regresses into an insecure girl who only wants her family to see her, know her, and accept her.

Kizashi scoffs. “Sakura, do you know how hard it was to raise you? Your mother and I lost count of the sleepless nights we had because you wanted to become a ninja.”

Green Mohawk adds, “Bad decision. You’re lucky you came back in one piece.” He throws an apologetic look at Sasuke’s lost arm.

Arthritic Grandpa points his cane at Sarada. “A child with two nin parents? Preposterous. Ninjas don’t grow well. They become orphans.”

Sakura stiffens beside Sasuke. He offers her his hand which she clasps in support, but really, it was just to stop her from springing when he says his piece, “Then I’m glad Sakura grew up okay despite being related to you. Clearly, you didn’t know her capabilities– or you only pretended to.”

A look of shock passes through their faces. Sarada takes the momentary silence to wiggle out of her baby wrap and onto Sakura’s lap. She squeezes her Mama’s cheeks, a gentle gesture of, Don’t worry Mama. I love you.

The manager of the restaurant also swoops into the awkward exchange by bringing the bill and a blank paper. “It’s a pleasure to have you dine with us, Dr. Uchiha. You saved my sister in an invasion once, but you probably don’t remember it anymore.”

Sasuke silently thanks the man for reminding Sakura what she is, what she has become.

Sakura smiles. Finding her footing, she quickly gives her autograph “for display” and nods to Sasuke. At this cue, he gives the manager a wad of cash and ushers his family out of the restaurant without so much of a goodbye to anyone else.

x x x

"I think I made a good impression." Sasuke breaks the silence as they enter their home.

Sakura's shoulders — broad, strong, dependable — tremble. But it's only laughter she can't contain.

"You sure did." A soft grumble passes between them and she erupts in louder chuckles. "Can't believe I paid for food I haven't eaten. I'm so hungry."

As they enter the kitchen, his shoulders rub hers, another language meant to hold her hand. "Great timing then."

“Okaerinasai!” Kakashi, Iruka, and Yamato, caliber soldiers, rightfully feared, don brightly-patterned aprons as they rambunctiously navigate a foreign space. Clutter decorates the countertops, and different, appetizing smells permeate the corners.

It smells like home.

Sasuke watches Sakura’s face light up at the chaotic sight.

Sarada is quickly lifted off Sasuke's embrace into the cradle made by three pairs of arms, and her greeting involves biting the cheeks of her uncles — her attempt at a kiss.

"No fair, Yamato. Don't turn your cheeks into wood!" Iruka bursts out. "It's painful for Sara— ow!"

"You forget she's Sakura's daughter." Yamato massages the flushed red side of his cheek where thick gums and milk teeth had clamped down hard.

Kakashi heeds fair warnings. "Now Sara-chan, why don't I kiss you instead?" But the toddler has other plans as stubby fingers pull down his mask.

“Now don’t hog my goddaughter like that.” The three house-nins part for Tsunade whose arms are already open for Sakura. “How’s my best student?”

Where no one touched her earlier, here she is received. In laughter, in pats, in hugs. Casual, mundane things that tell of love.

It feels like home.

“I didn’t invite you.” Sasuke notices the two empty sake bottles on the sink. “But I see you’ve already made yourself welcome.”

“Kakashi said this is my homecoming. Besides, you rarely play host.” Tsunade shrugs, her innocence quickly morphing into slyness. “Why don’t we play cards?”

Another bottle to the mix and a relocation to the patio later, the fifth hokage finds herself losing with an expectant audience.

"Sakura, sit next to your shishou.”

"Sakura, no."

A student still obeys her master, and like clockwork, a gust of wind loosens her top. Sasuke grimaces at the distraction.

"Aha. I win!" Tsunade puts down her hand. "See, Sakura, you're always my lucky charm."

“Don’t tell me you didn’t see that coming?” Iruka jests.

“I recommend Icha-Icha’s Education Against Seduction.” Kakashi pulls a book out of his apron to give to his former student, but Yamato’s the first one to flip through the pages.

Annoyed, Sasuke turns to a half-flustered, half-laughing Sakura. “She cheated. Again. How did she even become your teacher?”

“How did you even become her husband?” Tsunade rolls her eyes. “I bet Orochimaru taught you love potions. Why would the most beautiful kunoichi even marry you?”

“She has the best chakra control,” Kakashi pipes, “I bet Sakura can beat your genjutsu now.”

“Monstrous strength for a doctor.” A specific memory sends shivers to Yamato’s spine. “Don’t let her fix your bones while conscious.”

A consensus runs through the group which stops Sakura’s laughter. “Are these supposed to be compliments? Why do I feel offended?”

Inside her crib, Sarada giggles. Iruka leans down to her and whispers in acquiescence, “I know. She’s a loving mother too. You’re gonna grow up fine, Sara-chan.”

Sasuke trains his sight on Sakura whose face is painted in happiness. There is nothing to prove, nothing to say, nothing to do. She is seen for what she is, all the sides and parts of her that make her her: a student, a doctor, a wife, a mother.

A loud bang interrupts the scene, followed by a powerful rush of chakra.

"Good evening, constituents!" Clad in his hokage robes, Naruto commits to his ceremonious entrance. Only Sarada spares him attention with a delighted cooo-caaa.

"Did you bring it?" Tsunade drawls over her words. Already too drunk to balance, she is leaning against Yamato, who looks like a still painting in front of the fire.

Naruto presents another bottle of sake to the group with a flourish. "Of course, old woman!" Despite his desire to hold off on additional liquor, Sasuke accepts the gift.

x x x

The bottle, emptied after making several rounds in the group, now lies under Sakura's feet. The crowded bench trickled down to the three of them, the rest having already found abode on living room futons, limbs all splayed out and tangled like close friends under the warmth of the covers, with Sarada at the center of them all.

In the dark, Sakura's shoulders are hunched, free of the tension that hounded her this morning. The fading embers dance in her jade eyes.

"It had been a long time since we gathered like this." Her words trail smoke in the wintry air. "Too bad Sai had Yamanaka duties."

Naruto chuckles. "He missed a rare sighting of dancer Yamato."

"With deadpan expressions to boot."

Both of them turn to Sasuke at the same time and laughter spills out.

"No, I’m not drunk." Sasuke holds up his sole hand at the wordless prompting, but he puts it down quickly when his world starts spinning out of orbit. Yep, he’s drunk.

"You're no fun." Naruto sticks out his chin in defiance. "Why don't we play a game?"

Sakura claps in agreement. She somehow salvaged a third of the wine's content from their teachers for their drinking game.

"Take a shot if you did this," Sakura grins too widely. "Never have I ever failed a subject in the academy."

The boys clink their glasses and drink. Alcohol tastes like water when you get used to it.

"What? Sasuke failed?" Sakura's pitch climbs a bit higher.

It's an embarrassing admission, "I hated History." Sasuke wonders if his path of revenge would have taken a different trajectory if he had paid more attention. "Never have I ever failed a practical."

"What are these non-controversial questions?" Naruto snorts and empties his glass. Sakura smugly follows suit. "The know-it-all shows himself."

Sasuke shrugs, grateful to be spared from this round, because my god, I can't feel my legs. To be fair, he's doing a good job pretending he's fine. How is Naruto holding up so well?

"Okay, last question, and I have to go home to Hinata." Naruto swirls the remaining contents of the bottle. Probably good for only two shots.

"Hmm," Sasuke sees him rack his brain for more scandalous questions, but it's the one he picks that sears his insides. "Never have I ever fallen in love with a teammate while we were genin!"

“I hate you! That’s not how it works!”

“I’m too drunk to think of anything else!”

Sasuke swipes the bottle away from their reaching hands and swigs it into his mouth. He hopes it numbs down these butterflies and palpitations and somersaults that time traveled when he tried to touch her rosette strands as she scribbled furiously during History class.

"Sasuke-kun? You switched up the rules. You’re supposed to drink when it’s true.”

Sakura turns to Naruto, usually competitive, but has no protestations on this development.

“But it’s true.” The bottle goes round and round in his hand. “I liked Sakura back then,” he sighs his confession into the open, this secret no longer his own.

“No way.”

“I wasn’t just as loud about it.” Sasuke takes another swig, forgetting it’s empty, and the bottle comes loose in his fingers. “It actually faded you know,” he adds a dash of nonchalance, but Sakura, as she always does, sees through him.

“It’s true, Sakura-chan,” Naruto echoes, “Or maybe his definition of like is ‘the only girl he can tolerate’.” That earns him a good old slap on the back of the head.

They’re twelve again, struggling to be teammates, bickering at every conversation, and building bonds Sasuke thought he could fray.

This is family.

“Stop smiling.”

“I can’t stop.”

“You’re as annoying as you were then.”

x x x x

“What was the occasion?” The question hangs in the silence of midnight as she settles on her side of the bed. Sasuke adjusts his body to her presence, accommodating her curling limbs, like fitting two puzzle pieces.

“Nothing. I told them I missed them,” he lies.

Sakura needs her family, that was the message. She needs her home.

His fingers intertwine with the strands he liked, strands he loves. Underneath his skin, he feels her let go of wakefulness, dreams already waiting to claim her.

A murmur, a prayer, as she leaves the day, “Tadaima.”

FIN.

Thanks for reading!

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#sasusaku #uchiha sasuke #haruno sakura #uchiha sakura #uchiha sarada #team 7 feels #homewardsszine #sasuke-is-a-good-husbando

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