#my experience is evidence towards this being true

[lilyliveredlittlerichboy]

i love my wife and i love my girlfriend and i love my cats and i love my friends and i love my life. my days pass in a drunken haze of love, which is so much better than the alternative

[yamujiburo]

Why I Love Hanamusa

I get this question very frequently but have never given a really in depth, definitive answer. All just kinda implied through my comics and spread out asks. So here's this I guess! Long post ahead:

First, as a Pokémon fan in her mid 20s, I love seeing a ship where the characters are both in their mid/late 20s. Already, they’re much more relatable to me and my current experiences. Most Pokémon ships are between preteens, which can be cute but ultimately don’t interest me as much as they used to when I was a kid myself. Not enough to get super invested in and draw a lot of fanart for anyways haha.

I’ll also start by saying that canon doesn’t always influence whether or not I’ll ship something. I’m much more drawn to potential. Could the characters work together? Do their personalities work together in a nice way? I feel like this so much of fanon is anyways. Especially with queer relationships because they’re rarely depicted in the first place. A lot of the context for these ships is usually up to the fans to piece together or make up in general. And that’s the fun part to me!

Jessie and Delia have only met in the anime a handful of times. Any interaction they’ve had has either been pleasant, or just a typical Team Rocket interaction, with Delia dismissing them/not seeing them as a threat. Already a great jumping off point for me since, truly, they don’t have any actual beef or true, ill feelings towards each other. It’s not TOO out of the realm of possibility for them to potentially fall for each other. “But Jessie chased Delia’s son around trying to steal his Pokémon!” That’s where that dismissive and aloof attitude that Delia has comes into play. I’ll go more into Delia’s whole deal a bit later but I do think this aspect of her personality is a large reason why this ship can work. It’s not that she doesn’t care that Jessie has a bad past, but she can tell that, on the inside, Jessie’s a good person. And, in a scenario where Jessie is trying to become a better person, is forgiving enough to give her a shot. I feel like this is such a solid foundation for a ship. A character who has done wrong but is trying to be better and another character who is willing to help them be better. A classic dynamic!

It’s not just one-sided though; where Jessie is the only one benefitting and learning from the relationship. I believe Delia could get a lot out of being with someone like Jessie. To understand why, I think it’s important to know these characters’ respective backstories.

Jessie is an orphan/foster child who grew up in poverty. Her mother Miyamoto (from The Birth of Mewtwo) was a Team Rocket operative herself, who went on a mission to find Mew. In order to do this, she had to leave Jessie when she was just a toddler. Unfortunately, Miyamoto went MIA on her mission leaving Jessie to more or less fend for herself. Jessie went through life with zero stability, evident by her MANY different careers and constant moving around. It’s implied in the show that she went from foster home to foster home, and later in life tried being an idol, weather girl, florist, wine connoisseur, actress, most notably a nurse and finally a Team Rocket field agent. And even while in Team Rocket, she, James and Meowth were always doing odd jobs to get by. We see that Jessie used to be a sweet kid, and even adult, but the world and her circumstances repeatedly did her dirty, leading her to become the character we know today. Hot tempered, mean, selfish, etc. But despite this, her soft side does still shine through for the people and Pokémon she cares about. She is incredibly loyal.

Delia, unbeknownst to a lot of fans, also had a rough past (see Pocket Monsters: The Animation). Like Jessie, she had a lot of dreams and aspirations like wanting to be a model and even a trainer. But when she was 10, her mother didn’t let her, telling her that she had to stay home and learn to run the family restaurant (she’s an only child). Delia’s father left her and her mother to be a trainer, and never returned. When she was 18, she married Ash’s father and became pregnant shortly after. But right after Ash was born, he also set off to be a Pokémon trainer. And soon after that, her mother passed away, leaving Delia with just the restaurant and baby Ash. This gives so much context to Delia’s attitude in the show. We see that Delia is pained whenever Ash leaves on a journey, but she never shows that pain to anyone. ESPECIALLY Ash. She’s very quick to shoo him off when he shows any sign of wanting to go on another journey and even when he returns home, she acts more excited to see Pikachu than him almost every time. Without all this backstory, it’s easy to just read this as a funny gag, BUT with context, I think it really shows how quickly Delia shuts down and detaches in order to not confront her own feelings. She’s afraid of losing people and getting hurt again.

All that said, I think Jessie and Delia provide each other with EXACTLY what the other needs. 

Aside from becoming rich and famous, Jessie’s biggest aspiration is to get married. In my opinion, this is more so an underlying want for love and stability. There is no one more stable in the show than Delia. Delia’s lived in Pallet her whole life, she’s worked at the same restaurant since she was young and she is always there when Ash comes back home. She has all the love, patience and stability Jessie needs and craves. While forgiving, Delia’s not stupid and can keep Jessie in check. Delia’s also just an angel, which I feel, would make Jessie want to be better. And on top of all this, on more of a surface level, Delia’s a chef and excellent cook. She shows love through cooking and Jessie, who grew up poor, regularly starving and eating snow, happily receives that love. Jessie’s able to live a happy and healthy life with someone like Delia.

Delia, as stated, is very stable. Likely pretty monotonous and solitary, especially living in such a small town like Pallet. This isn’t a bad thing but it’s a little sad when you consider that Delia also had dreams of traveling, being a model and a trainer. She had to give up so many dreams in order to fulfill her duties as a restaurant owner and mother. And even now, when Ash is off on his journey, she feels the need to always be home and be that stable pillar, leaving behind any ambitions she had, thinking it’s too late for her (she’s only 29 btw). But then along comes Jessie, dangerous, passionate, an absolute firecracker. Someone who’s whole life has been about chasing dreams and either, never giving up on them or finding a new dream to chase. Upon learning about Delia’s past aspirations, I could see Jessie pushing her towards them, letting her know that life’s too short and she has nothing to lose from trying. On top of this, Jessie’s also loyal. She, James and Meowth are depicted as doing anything for anyone who gives them food or shows them kindness. Delia does both so there’s no way Jessie would leave her. This fulfills an essential need for Delia, who is afraid of the people in her life leaving her.

There’s so much potential for mutual growth and learning between these two and I adore that. They compliment each other, they help each other and they bring out the best qualities in one another.

I’m not really sure how to end this and I could truly talk about them even more but I don’t want this to be tooooo long haha. OH I could end it with maybe the most funny aspect of this ship that I've brushed over and also what drew me to it in the first place. Jessie. As Ash’s stepmom. THE END.

[mikeo56]

I watched the uncensored video of US airman Aaron Bushnell self-immolating in front of the Israeli embassy in Washington while screaming “Free Palestine”. I hesitated to watch it because I knew once I put it into my mind it’s there for the rest of my life, but I figured I owe him that much. 

I feel like I’ve been picked up and shaken, which I suppose was pretty much what Bushnell was going for. Something to shake the world awake to the reality of what’s happening. Something to snap us out of the brainwashed and distracted stupor of western dystopia and turn our gaze to Gaza.

The sounds stay with you more than the sights. The sound of his gentle, youthful, Michael Cera-like voice as he walked toward the embassy. The sound of the round metal container he stored the accelerant in getting louder as it rolls toward the camera. The sound of Bushnell saying “Free Palestine”, then screaming it, then switching to wordless screams when the pain became too overwhelming, then forcing out one more “Free Palestine” before losing his words for good. The sound of the cop screaming at him to get on the ground over and over again. The sound of a first responder telling police to stop pointing guns at Bushnell’s burning body and go get fire extinguishers.

He remained standing for an unbelievable amount of time while he was burning. I don’t know where he got the strength to do it. He remained standing long after he’d stopped vocalizing.

Bushnell was taken to the hospital, where independent reporter Talia Jane reports that he has died. It was about as horrific a death as a human being can experience, and it was designed to be. 

Shortly before his final act in this world, Bushnell posted the following message on Facebook:

“Many of us like to ask ourselves, ‘What would I do if I was alive during slavery? Or the Jim Crow South? Or apartheid? What would I do if my country was committing genocide?’ “The answer is, you’re doing it. Right now.”

Aaron Bushnell has provided his own answer to this challenge. We’re all providing our own right now.

I would never do what Bushnell did, and I would never recommend anyone else does either. That said, I also can’t deny that his action is having its intended effect: drawing attention to the horrors that are happening in Gaza.

I know this is true because everywhere I see Aaron Bushnell being discussed online I see a massive deluge of pro-Israel trolls frantically swarming the comments in a mad rush to manipulate the narrative. They all understand how destructive it is to US and Israeli information interests for people to be seeing an international news story about a member of the US Air Force self-immolating on camera while screaming “Free Palestine”, and they are doing everything they can to mitigate that damage.

As I write this, there are with absolute certainty people digging through Bushnell’s history searching for dirt that can be spun as evidence that he was a bad person, that he was mentally ill, that he was steered astray by pro-Palestine activists and dissident media — whatever they can make stick. If they find something, literally anything, the smearmeisters and propagandists will run with it as far as they can.

That’s what they’re choosing to do at this point in history. That’s what they would have done during slavery, or the Jim Crow south, or apartheid. That’s what they’re doing while their country commits genocide right now. People are showing what they would have done with their response to Gaza, and they’re showing what they would have done with their response to the self-immolation of Aaron Bushnell.

I’m not going to link to the video here; watching it is a personal decision on which you should probably do your own legwork to make sure it’s really what you want. Whether you watch it or not, it happened, just like the incineration of Gaza is happening right now. We each own our personal response to that reality. This is who we are.

[augustinbluex]

shoplifter

Pairings: Step Dad Mark x Security Guard Jeno x afab Reader

Summary: when you got caught stealing in a sex shop, you thought you'd earn another lecture from your stepdad. however, the lesson was not what you’d excepted

Genre: smut

Warnings: noncon elements, unprotected sex (be safe!), anal sex, rough sex, threesome, stepcest, double penetration, face slapping, pussy slapping, humiliation, degradation, fingering, dirty talk, spanking, squirting, creampie, overstimulation.

Word count: 3k+

THIS IS NOT YOUR TYPICAL GIRL DINNER. READ AT YOUR OWN DISCRETION

You sat there, your gaze fixated on the ticking clock, the anticipation clawing at your nerves. The wait was killing you—you’d been caught in this stupid fucking store, having maybe tried to leave without paying. The rent-a-cop had seized you, dragging you into the dimly lit backroom, but you managed to pull the name of Mark Lee out of your pocket like a desperate trump card. A way to escape the clutches of this predicament. The guard had glowered at you, reluctantly agreeing to make the call.

Mark would undoubtedly give you hell for this, yet he would also ensure that this embarrassing incident remained hidden from prying eyes. He wouldn't want the world to know that his step-daughter had been caught in the act of petty larceny within the confines of a sex shop.

So, all you had to do was wait.

The guard had given you a hard time when you dropped Mark's name. As if your father—no, your stepfather, you had corrected him—being who you claimed, he was automatically invalidated any suspicion. According to the guard, if your lineage held true, you could afford those tantalizing toys and bottles of lubricant. And perhaps, on some level, the thrill of doing something forbidden excited you. You had made sure to emphasize that point, emphasizing both the ‘naughty’ and the ‘excited’.

Too bad your criminal career apparently went bust on your first heist.

Voices echoed outside the closed door. There was an edge to Mark's voice, a tone that sent a shiver down your spine. The guard, on the other hand, seemed to find immense amusement. Telling the rich and powerful that their children got busted stealing sex toys probably was the highlight of this guy’s week.

"Hi, Mark," you greeted him, mustering a demure smile as the door swung open.

"You have no idea how disappointed I am in you," he responded, his gaze cold and piercing. Gesturing towards the desk, he continued, his voice laced with disdain, "I've already had a chat with Jeno here... but I'd like to hear it from you. Did you steal these items?"

His eyes settled upon the incriminating evidence displayed on the desk—the dildo and the bottle of lube, silent witnesses to your foolishness. You merely shrugged, a nonchalant gesture that seemed to catch him off guard.

He sucked in a sharp breath. "You've been acting out, breaking rules since..."

"Since my mother died," you finished his unspoken words with a bitter edge.

The truth was, you had been defying rules long before that tragic event shattered your world. It was just that Mark had finally taken notice of your rebellious streak, particularly after he started sending you to that exclusive, expensive school and footing the bill for your reckless driving tickets. It had hurt, realizing that he only seemed to experience distant emotions—distant disappointment, distant pride, distant everything. But it wasn't you who had changed when the loss struck.

Still, you couldn't help but resent his attempt to guilt trip you using your mother's death. "Save the 'since your mom died' lecture for the drive home," you said sharply.

Mark scowled, a realization dawning upon you that you had never seen him truly angry. He had always kept his emotions at arm's length—detached disappointment, detached pride—those were the only versions of him you had witnessed lately. "Why did you do this?" he demanded, his voice laced with frustration.

"Because I wanted the damn dildo," you replied matter-of-factly. Your words hung in the air, unapologetic and unyielding. It didn't faze Mark. You even contemplated mentioning how lonely this summer would be since he had forbidden you from seeing those he deemed "bad influences."

"I understand, you know," Mark said, his voice devoid of its usual robotic tone. “And you could’ve paid for it, you have the money. I wouldn’t have judged you. We all need a release.”

You maintained your stance, reiterating and emphasizing your reasons. He just simply nodded. As you prepared to urge him forward, his hand landed firmly on your shoulder, and Jeno, the guard, promptly shut the door. 

“Mark, wha–”

Confusion tinged your voice as you questioned what was happening, but the air in the room suddenly grew colder, the atmosphere thick with tension.

"As I mentioned, I spoke to Jeno," he began, his voice chillingly detached. "He won't pursue legal charges, and I've taken care of the stolen merchandise. However..." He paused, his words hanging ominously in the air, "I believe it's time for you to learn a lesson."

In an instant, the fabric of your shirt was torn away, leaving you gasping in surprise. Before you could react, Mark forcefully maneuvered you across the room, bending you over the edge of the desk. Shock and fear coursed through your veins as you struggled to comprehend his actions.

"What are you doing?" You exclaimed, your voice trembling with a mixture of confusion and fear.

He leaned in close, his grip tightening on a fistful of your hair. "Sweetheart, we all have to control our desires and restrain our darker impulses," he whispered, his words laced with an unsettling intensity.

Your voice quivered as you registered the pressure against you, feeling something hard pressing into you. "What?!" you managed to utter, your mind reeling from the sudden turn of events.

“I’ve watched you prance around, debasing yourself, and I tried to reign myself in, thinking you just needed time. Time’s up.” With a forceful grip, he tore your skirt away, leaving you exposed and vulnerable. "You've continued to defy me, and now it's time for you to understand the consequences of letting others have their way."

You tried to twist and strike him, but the guard grabbed your arms, wrestled them behind your back, and cuffed them. “Your daddy paid for some more toys as well.”

You struggled in vain, yelled your head off, and screamed when a hand dipped underneath your underwear and rubbed your pussy. It was only when Jeno cut you off by forcing a cloth into your mouth that you realized that it was Mark’s. You thrashed and moaned when a finger entered you. Your body shuddered, going very still when the next one entered, stroking inside.

“I wonder if this will be an effective punishment. She seems to be enjoying it.”

You shook your head and let out a furious growl until Mark pulled you up, working you over with his fingers. “You’re already wet, huh?” He asked, though it didn’t feel like a question. It felt like an observation, like he’s commenting on the weather and not your obvious arousal. “Jeno, come look at her. She’s so needy.”

“Fuck, she’s so turned on by this.” Jeno said, licking his lips as he looked down at you. He grabbed your bra and tugged, straps biting into your skin until they gave way. You squealed when he pinched a nipple. Sobbed when, while fondling that breast, he put his mouth on the other.

You shook your head. This was not happening. Your stepfather and some rent-a-cop were not raping you in a backroom at a sex shop. You were not, despite Mark’s assertions, ‘dripping wet’. You did not like being manhandled by two guys who knew what they were doing.

This was not happening.

You looked up, seeing Jeno pull his shirt over his head and toss it aside. Your eyes immediately went back to the odd stains in the ground when they landed on Mark. You were certainly not intimidated by seeing your stepdad’s cock.

“This is your place of business, Jeno. So I’ll let you pick, which hole do you want?”

Okay, he had humiliated you, fondled you, but your stepdad wasn’t going to fuck you. He wasn’t going to team with some random asshole to fuck you.

“Ass.”

“Grease her up.”

You stiffened at that. Jeno tossed a bottle—that lubricant you stole, over to Mark, who had managed to wrestle your panties off you as while warding off your attempts to kick him. You tried thrashing and wriggling when they held you down and two slick fingers pressed into your ass. You never let anyone there before, and you were not going to let it happen now. You tensed, clenched, and let out a cry as the man forced his fingers inside you. Someone slapped your ass hard.

“It’ll hurt more if you keep being a stubborn bitch.” Jeno growled.

An angry, forced cough from Mark, and he corrected himself. “It’ll hurt more if you keep being stubborn.”

Apparently his stepdaughter was not a bitch, even if he was going to rape you. That was almost funny. Then your ass was slapped again and again. Mark fingered you roughly, forcing his digits in and twisting. Eventually, you yielded, relaxing your muscles. It did not go unnoticed.

“See, baby? You can be a good girl.”

Jeno stood up and walked over to the chair, sitting down and motioning towards himself. With a grunt, Mark hoisted you over his shoulder—damn, he was in shape—and approached. As much as you tried to break free, you couldn’t. Then Mark positioned you, and Jeno put one his hands on your hip. Something much thicker than those fingers pressed against your ass. You let out a muffled attempt at a “no” as you were pulled down.

He was big.

You yowled, planted your feet on the floor and tried to stand; only for Jeno’s arms to loop around your waist and pull you back down.

”Goddamn… Relax your stiff little body, you bitch… My cock won’t fit if you are so tight.” Jeno grunted into your ear and then moved his hand to your chin, taking out the gag. His thumb slipped inside your mouth, pressing at the back of your throat.

Somewhere in the back of your head as you were lifted up and down, you were thankful for that—hopefully he wouldn’t last long.

You didn’t think you could last if he didn’t finish right quick.

“Tell me how good I’m fucking your greedy little ass.” Jeno growled into your ear, a hand flicking down to rub your clit.

Your legs were struggling to stay wrapped around his, and you whimpered against his neck. Getting no response, his hand that was rubbing your clit now slapped you across the face, and his thrusts slowed yet got harder as he slapped you once more.

“What the fuck did I say? Tell me how good I’m fucking your ass!” He yelled, grabbing you by the chin to look up at him.

Your eyes stung with hot tears from the pleasure, already feeling the all too familiar knot in your stomach forming. “Please! It feels so good! M’want more!” You said through gritted teeth, whining in pleasure as he slapped you across the face once more.

“You dirty fucking whore, giving you my cock and you still want more, hmm?” Jeno knew you were close, he could tell from the way you tightened around him and from your breathing pattern. Your eyes flicked over to Mark, who now was walking over to you.

“Oh? Seems like our little whore’s enjoying this better than I thought.” He said, “I had a feeling you had the makings of a true anal slut here.”

You heard a loud ‘smack’ followed by a sharp stinging sensation exploding all over your pussy as you were  suddenly spanked. Causing it to clench around nothing.

“Shit. You were right man, she’s so fucking tight. She really might be an anal slut by the end of this.” Jeno grunted, laughing. His hips never stopped moving.

“Really now,” Mark chuckled as he cupped your chin, “Anything you want to say to that, baby?” 

“Th-That’s not-” You knew you were full of shit, but your pride didn’t want to admit to something embarrassing like that. With a gasp, you found yourself in a headlock. Your back was pressed against Jeno’s front, his forearm applied pressure on your windpipe.

“Now, now, it’s not good to lie like that.” He licked your face, gnawing at your earlobe. “Bad girls like you should be punished.” 

“I-I’m… N-Not a bad…” You tried to deny it, but the harsh grip around your neck made it hard to get the words out. Yet in some ways, you could only think about how good this was feeling. Causing your pussy to quiver and your ass coiling around.

Mark smirked with an amused brow, “I’m sorry, don’t think we caught that.’

“I-I’m…” 

The man leaned in closer, “Hm?” 

“I’m… bad… girl..” You uttered. 

They glanced at each other and grinned while Jeno grabbed and groped at your breasts, giving your chest a nice fondle. 

“Speak up slut,” he twisted a nipple causing you to moan, “So that we could hear you.” 

You looked up, tears started falling down your face. “I’m… a bad… girl…”

“That’s our girl,” The two cheered, laughing loudly at how cock-drunken you were. “Glad to see you’re finally realizing your true calling.” One of them said. 

“With that said, I think it’s high time I gave you a little reward.” An evil smirk curled Mark’s lips. You wriggled, trying to get off as he traced his fingers against your pussy. “Just as a curiosity, have you ever taken two cocks before?”

“No,” you said, out of breath.

“Yeah, thought so.” He grabbed onto your hips lining his cock up to your cunt, while Jeno leaned you back a little.  

Fuck. Mark smirked and watched as your face twisted into something horrified. 

“Look at that, your old man is coming to join in. You gonna behave for him? Hmm, princess?”

With those words leaving Jeno’s mouth, it sent you over the edge completely, nearly screaming as you came right when Mark shoved his cock in your pussy. He hissed with how tightly you were clenching around him. Your back arched high, and Jeno continued to pound into your ass. You choked and gasped for air, the pleasure became too much for you to handle.

“P-please… S-stop!” you stuttered pathetically, squeezing your eyes shut and trying to push Mark away with your legs. 

You were stuffed past the point you thought you would burst. They started out uncoordinated, being bounced up and down the big guy’s cock while the other slammed in awkwardly. But they soon found a rhythm, each withdrawing at the same time, and slamming you down on their cocks tougher. Over and over.

It was overwhelming.

“Look at your slutty fucking stepdaughter, Mark. Such a little whore,” Jeno laughed, continuing to abuse your ass with his cock.

Mark smirked as he flicked your nipple, “Does your daddy’s cock feel good inside you, princess?” then gave it a painful twist. “Wanna be a little cumslut?”

You just moaned in response, unable to form coherent words.

“I think,” Jeno reached up and pinched at your other nipple, “your daddy asked you a question.”

“Yes! Yes, I wanna be your little cumslut, please.”

Everything happening all at once was making you lose your breath. You could feel the coil tightening in your stomach. Both of the cocks hitting that sweet spot inside you. Before you even had time to react, you saw white. Your whole body lunged forward as you came around both of their cocks again, soaking them. Words couldn’t even leave your open mouth, your brain not working properly.

“Jesus Christ,” a voice said, and you couldn’t register whose. “Did you see that?”

“Yeah,” another one came. “She squirted with two cocks fucking her. Such a dirty slut, aren't you?” Several slaps landed onto your face. You assumed it’s Mark because of his position.

You couldn’t think straight anymore, body shaking pathetically under him.

“T-too… much,” you whimpered through gritted teeth, your knees moving to try and push Jeno away.

Mark roughly forced his cock back in your pussy, his own orgasm so close. With sporadic quick thrusts, Jeno bottomed out inside your ass, and you could feel it all, warm and coating every inch of your walls. You were screaming, and he held his cock inside you for a few moments before slowly pulling out of you, grunting and panting as he regained himself. 

Mark’s hand wrapped around your throat, squeezing hard and grunting as you clawed at his hands. “Gonna fill you up with my cum, and you’re gonna take it all, right princess? Gonna be stuffed full of our cum?” He growled into your ear, before straightening again.

You couldn’t think straight anymore, sobs and moans escaping your lips as he fucked your sensitive cunt. Within seconds, Mark thrusted one last time into you before you felt his thick load spurting inside of you. He let out an animalistic growl as he came, grinding his hips slowly against you.

When he finished, he paused a while, nipping at your neck. Then he pulled out, and you were shoved off Jeno, sent sprawling into your stepfather. He gently laid you on your side. You laid there, face pressed against the filthy floor as clothes rustled.

“Again, thank you for calling me in on this, fuckface.” Mark said. The hell? He knew the fucking rent-a-cop.

“No worries. I didn’t believe her when she dropped your name—the picture you showed didn't quite match up.”

Picture? You forced yourself to look at the two, both half-dressed.

Mark had opened his wallet. “It is a few years old. She started dying her hair shortly after it was taken. Started wearing contacts, too.”

“What?”

“Ah, baby. Yes, me and Jeno go fairly far back.” Mark said, nodding. “I have a lot of business interests, and that means a lot of varied social circles.”

“So… about her…” Jeno said, trailing off.

Mark shrugged, contemplating the situation. "I'll leave her in your hands while I head home to fetch a change of clothes for her. Once that's done, we can make a few calls to ensure the lesson continues."

A whimper escaped your lips, particularly as Mark referred to leaving you in Jeno's "care." As if on cue, he dumped a bag containing chains and clamps onto the desk, casting a wicked grin in your direction. You instinctively tried to edge away, but Mark leaned in closely, lowering himself to one knee.

"Luckily for you, summer vacation has just begun, so you won't miss any school while you're grounded," he stated firmly, his tone holding an unusual warmth. You shook your head, refusing to accept what was unfolding before you.

"Baby," he continued, "it's crucial for you to learn that actions come with consequences. However, you're a smart girl, and with proper guidance, I'm confident we can improve your behavior."

[keigokoutarou]

“Do you like my hips?”

Simon “Ghost” Riley x F!Reader

Pt. 1.5 | Pt. 2

Warnings: suggestive content

Purely self indulgent based off of a dream I had involving my crush cosplaying as ghost. Enjoy.

You sighed, eyes still in your book as your phone buzzed with a phone call. Rolling them in an annoyed manner, you shifted your eyes toward the phone resting by your ankle on the large chaise in your sunroom. Your face looked surprised at the caller.

“Lieutenant Pouty”

You swiped to answer FaceTime, trying not to seem excited about a random call.

“Lieutenant?” You questioned. “You never FaceTime me. What's wrong?

“Nothings wrong.” His voice was gruff.

You listened to the phone be moved around before sitting down against something. You watched the military grade cargo pants come into view at the hips. He was standing angled, hips facing slightly to the side and swaying as he moved to mess with things you couldn’t see off camera. You tried so hard not to stare but his waist looked impossibly good. He had on a tight black shirt that tucked into them so well and his physic was so evident. You’d always admired his body, loving his broad shoulders and how he tapered in at the waist. He was going to be the death of you and he didn’t even have a clue.

“What are you doing then?” You asked, trying to shake off the nerves.

“Wanted to show you something.” He answered swiftly, hands coming around to clip his utility belt around his waist. You inwardly groaned to yourself at how much smaller his waist looked.

“Your hips sir?” You joked, only you didn’t feel amused, you felt hot and drowning in it.

“Don’t have my mask on yet.” He continued with his short answers.

“I’ll call you back then.” You were trying, at least. Trying to get yourself out of a potential situation with your Lieutenant before you could embarrass yourself.

“Absolutely not, Sergeant.” He paused what he was doing.

You remained silent, wondering if he could even see your face that well from the angle he had the phone at.

As the unbearable silence continued, he began putting strapping things around his thighs and hooking them up to the utility belt.

“Sir, I respect you but I’m not sure if it’s appropriate for me to be facetiming with parts of you.” You sighed, being more forward with your uncomfortableness.

“This is payback.” You heard his voice drop an octave with a hint of play backing his tone.

“Payback?” You questioned. “Sir, I'm not quite sure what you mean.” You quizzed

He didn't answer that and continued on in his doings. He reached for the skull mask, almost dangling it in front of the camera before lifting it. You could hear the sound of it slipping on over his hair.

“Perhaps I should call Sergeant McTavish to gain a better idea of what I’ve done to upset you.” You grumbled.

He still didn’t answer. You watched him pull his sleeves up, showing his tattoos before exhaling.

“Are you alone, Sergeant?” He questioned with his voice sounding a bit more muffled because of his mask.

“I’m home, yes sir.” You answered confused. “But I don’t see how that’s any of your concern unless you need to tell me something classified.”

“I need to ask you something.” He continued, voice dry as winter air.

“Alright.” You nodded, finally feeling like you could breathe again.

“I overheard you speaking with Soap.” He started adjusting his gloves to his liking and not bothering to adjust the phone. “You told him how much you loved my hips.”

You're sure if your soul hadn’t left your body in all of those near death experiences, it sure was now. Your face flushed immediately and your heart raced in its cage.

“Is that true, Sergeant?” He continued, seemingly unbothered by what he said to you.

“Sir I-“ you started, pausing before taking a deep breath. “You must have misheard me.”

“Hmm.” He quizzed inwardly. “Are you lying?”

“No sir.” You tried to even your voice.

“You know that lying to your superior could mean discharge.” He continued.

It was moments like this where you cursed the life lessons he faced that made him so unbelievably stoic at the worst of times.

You had absolutely no words for the man on the other line as he tilted the phone to face him. He didn’t pick it up though and that made you subconsciously squeeze your thighs together. You were meeting his eyes from the waist up and the angle almost made you pass out.

“I’ll ask again.” His usually cold eyes almost seemed to squint in amusement. Was he enjoying this? “Do you like my hips, sergeant?”

Even from this angle, his eyes bore into yours and you knew there was no chance in lying to him.

“Yes sir.” You mumbled, speaking your truth and sending all of your dignity with it.

“Atta girl.” He sounded so satisfied. “This is your payback for wearing that shirt yesterday.”

Your eyebrows knitted together before reaching an aha moment. You wore a skin tight black spaghetti strap crop top yesterday because it was the hottest day of the year. You and the team were fiddling around with maintenance on all of the buggies so it was a no brainer to dress cool. However you remembered thinking how great your chest looked and maybe on purpose, you made sure Ghost thought the same.

“You aren’t dumb, sergeant.” He continued on, watching as you reached a conclusion in your mind. “I almost thought you didn’t catch me looking.”

And you almost didn’t. Had you not been so attentive to reading your Lieutenants eyes, you would have absolutely missed the way his eyes flickered slightly toward your cleavage when you subtly pulled your shirt down a bit by it’s hem.

“Anyhow.” He interrupted your train of thought. “I assume this won’t happen again.”

“No sir.” You we’re drowning in that heat now with no life jacket in sight.

“At least not without proper punishment.” You picked up on his excitement showing through his tone as he camera angled back at his hips and he stepped back revealing the much more obvious tenting of his pants.

“I’ll see you tomorrow, Sergeant.” He bed before clicking the call to an end.

A wicked smirk complimenting your flushed face came into play and you sure as hell were going to fuck with your lieutenant some more.

[here-there-were-dragons]

there’s something deeply wrong with the fact that if i just simply decided to walk around everywhere on all fours all day, and did absolutely nothing else differently, i would be guaranteed to have the cops called on me and be put back in a psych ward with at least 5 new diagnosis by the end of the day.

walking around on all fours isn’t even something i do or would want to do. it would destroy my arthritic-ass spine. but there’s something deeply, rage-inducingly fucked up about the fact that even something that small is enough for this society to deem it morally acceptable and necessary to dissapear you into fucking conversion therapy torture jail indefinitely and saddle you with life-ruining legal tags forever “for your and everyone’s safety”!

just commenting on this as being fucked up could very easily be enough to get me the same treatment if someone decided they wanted to! it’s not like anyone’s going to stop some psych person from deciding that this is totally real undeniable freudian slip 100% true we promise you guys evidence that i’m some kind of feral mentally degenerate personimal mindlessly beholden to some illogical instinct to crawl around and bite good normal god-fearing real people because CLEARLY you’d have to be crazy yourself and/or want to DO the thing yourself to defend this UNCOMFORTABLE THING, right? nobody could just think it’s fucked up how we treat doing (abnormal thing) without being a Secret Monster themselves, REAL people obviously know unquestioningly why it’s bad, you just want to be allowed to give in to your corrupted malformed wrong EVIL base instincts that you definitely have (INSTEAD of a conscious mind with any valid logical thoughts or worthwhile human experiences in it) because i said so and i’m The Expert so everything i say is true and right!

i can’t even figure out where to fit in the bit about how fucked it is that if you did anything “abnormal” like that literally everyone automatically assumes you’re going to be dangerous and violent about it. that if someone decides to go around on all fours then CLEARLY they’re going to randomly bite GOOD HEALTHY NORMAL REAL people for no reason. it’s like people can’t comprehend the idea of any even slightly deviant behavior that isn’t violence and just assume if anything even slightly weird’s going on it’s moving in the direction of mindless bloodshed-of good normal people’s blood, especially, personally, obviously. human-shaped things come in “actual person” and “mindless rabid horrordemon that desires only real human’s blood and pain” and as far as they’re concerned everything that even slightly inhabits, leans towards, or vaguely reminds them of the second category is functionally identical and will inevitably attack real humans the same way-for literally no reason beyond a cosmic ontological sort of Wrongness and Emptiness Of Real Thought And Soul-if allowed to exist in their field of view longer than thirty seconds.

[a-very-tired-jew]

Finally got an anti-Zionist definition of Zionism

An Israeli was brave enough to pop into the Dropout Discord’s Palestine channel today (May 5th, 2024) and ask what definition of Zionism they were using. While most people all had the same base of “Jews having their own state in their homeland” every single one of them goes off the rails with their own respective definition and conspiracy.

The first person said this:

Fig. 1. First person responding to the Israeli gives their definition of Zionism.

Notice that they say Zionism is the idea that Israel is uniquely and solely the rightful homeland of the Jews. This implies that there’s a malicious intent in Zionism towards non-Jews within Israel. This person has likely never heard of Kahanism, but in their mind Zionism and Kahanism are likely the same.

Here’s the second person to respond:

Fig. 2. Second response uses refers to anti-Zionist. Jews and their supposed definition.

Now, I know a bunch of anti-Zionist Jewish groups and people and I have never heard this particular definition. I’ve only heard this from extreme antisemites who hide behind the guise of being anti-Zionist progressives and actual terrorist groups trying to create a false antisemitic conspiracy narrative. However, this is my own personal experience and this could be the case, as the user says this is what is said in their circles. And if it’s true then it’s a conspiracy driven alt reality version of things as it denies all evidence to the contrary. There are whole levels to this that ignore the non-Jewish Israelis, the rights that they have in Israel, their representation in the government, and so on.

and the third person to respond is someone I’ve talked about before. This is the Jew who claims they were indoctrinated and all their elders are brainwashed and just need to “open their eyes to the truth.”

Fig. 3. Third response from a user who expands on Fig. 1. User’s definition and adds their own conspiracy.

I want to point out that this token Jew who believes others are indoctrinated actively believes the Israeli is making it so only Jews can be citizens. This is not any policy I can find, nor is it something I’ve seen even talked about outside of the most extremist elements. I think they’re referencing the 2018 stuff about Jews having the right to self determination, setting Hebrew as the National language, and government endorsement of settlers. But that’s far from the Israeli government and Zionism stating that Israel is for Jews and only Jews, and active programs to remove non-Jews. It’s something that, once again, would only come from antisemitic groups who want to generate strife through a particular narrative.

These are the definitions that they’re working with and/or believe. It’s no wonder you can’t actually talk to these activists because these definitions are laced with rhetoric from terrorist groups and antisemites. There’s traces of Jewish supremacy, world control, and other tropes throughout, and what’s sad is that a self confessed Jewish person believes it. Not only do they believe it, they’ve been extremely vocal in the server about it. They have so much to unpack that I can’t imagine what brought them to this level of conspiratorial thinking regarding Jews and Zionism.

It takes a lot of work to get people to see their conspiracy theories for what they are and that they’ve been misled. It’s easier to fall into them than to crawl out of that hole and realize you’ve been radicalized. That takes time, self reflection, and often a big “oh shit” moment, which may or may never happen.

At this point I’m just documenting how radicalized the people in the Dropout TV Discord are and how many of them believe in antisemitic conspiracies and downright falsities. Maybe they’ll do something about it one day, but I doubt it.

[deliciousangelfestival]

Let Me Love You - 6

Character: college!Bucky x Female!Reader

Summary: On a mysterious, rainy night, Bucky witnesses a distressing encounter involving his crush.

Chapter 1 , Chapter 2 , Chapter 3 , Chapter 4 , Chapter 5 , Chapter 6 , Chapter 7 ,Chapter 8.

Main Masterlist || support: Ko-fi

Thank you to everyone who has read this chapter. Please let me know what your thoughts are. I'd love to hear your feedback. Thank you once again.

Leaving Lloyd stunned by the reveal that Bucky turned out to be one of the wealthiest persons in the country, Bucky led you over to his table.

You were half-stunned too, your mind reeling with the sudden revelation. "Wait… you—" you began, struggling to find the right words.

Bucky, appearing somewhat awkward under the unexpected attention, interjected, "Are you surprised?"

You nodded slowly, still trying to process the information. "Mmh," you murmured, a mix of awe and disbelief evident in your voice.

Bucky chuckled nervously, attempting to downplay the situation. "It's my father's business, haha. Not mine. But I want you to meet him."

The realization hit you like a bolt of lightning. Does this mean you're going to meet the CEO?

Quickly, you smoothed down your hair and straightened your clothes, trying to compose yourself for the encounter.

Meanwhile, Michael returned from speaking with Lloyd, though you hardly noticed, your attention completely consumed by the impending introduction to the CEO. Unbeknownst to you, Lloyd's gaze lingered on you from afar, his expression unreadable.

As Michael approached, he extended his hand toward you, a warm smile gracing his features. "Hello, Y/N. Nice to meet you," he greeted, his tone friendly and inviting.

“Nice to meet you, sir,” you replied, your voice tinged with nervousness as you addressed the boss of your boss. Despite your apprehension, Michael's friendly and humble demeanor put you at ease, much like Bucky's.

Meanwhile, Nicky bit her nail nervously, her thoughts racing as she grappled with the sudden realization that being with Lloyd, the popular guy on campus, paled in comparison to Bucky's family wealth and influence.

Once accustomed to being the center of attention due to her father's status, Nicky now was overshadowed by the prestige associated with Bucky's family.

No longer the belle of the night, she received no compliments or attempts to impress her, a stark contrast to her previous experiences.

Frustrated and perhaps resentful, Nicky grabbed her phone and began typing furiously, reflecting on her inner turmoil and uncertainty about her place in this new dynamic. Only time would reveal the true extent of her intentions.

*****

After the party, Bucky dropped you off at your apartment building. As you exited the car, a sense of unexpected gratitude washed over you. You had anticipated hating tonight, yet you found yourself enjoying it instead.

Typically overshadowed by Lloyd's presence, you often found yourself relegated to small talk, only engaging when prompted. However, tonight was different. Bucky and his father had actively included you in their conversations, making you feel valued and appreciated.

"Thank you so much," you expressed sincerely, looking at Bucky as if he were an angel sent to rescue you from the otherwise dreadful night.

"Good night," Bucky nodded in response, his gaze lingering on you as you closed the door and made your way inside.

Once alone in his car, Bucky drove back to his apartment, his thoughts lingering on the evening's events. Upon parking, he noticed a familiar car nearby.

Curiosity piqued, he approached the vehicle and knocked on the back seat window. To his surprise, the window rolled down, revealing his father inside.

"That's her, right?" Michael's voice cut through the night air, his tone carrying a hint of amusement.

Bucky glanced at his father, feigning innocence. "What do you mean?" he replied, a playful smirk tugging at his lips.

"Don't lie to me, boy. I was once young too, you know," Michael retorted, his gaze penetrating.

Bucky chuckled nervously, scratching the back of his neck. "Hehe," he muttered, unable to suppress a sheepish grin.

His father's next question caught him off guard. "Are you mad? I suddenly call you to come here and make an appearance," Bucky asked, concern evident in his voice.

"It's my son's request. How could I ignore it?" Michael responded, his tone softening with paternal affection. "Besides, you rarely ask for anything."

"Thanks, Dad," Bucky replied, gratitude shining in his eyes as he exchanged a meaningful glance with his father.

Then, Michael's gaze turned probing. "You like her?" he inquired, his voice gentle yet probing.

Bucky nodded without hesitation, his heart suddenly feeling lighter with the admission. "I do," he confessed, his voice earnest and sincere.

A proud smile spread across Michael's face. "A quick, honest answer. That's a real man," he remarked approvingly before rolling up the window and leaving Bucky to his thoughts.

🎓

As you walked into the university like usual, you couldn't shake the feeling that all eyes were on you, whispers following your every step. Dismissing it as mere paranoia, you made your way to your seat and sat down, hoping to ignore the incessant murmurs.

But the whispers persisted, growing louder until one of your classmates nervously approached you.

"Y/N?" she called out, her voice tinged with uncertainty.

You turned to her, a questioning expression on your face. "Hmm?" you responded, curious as to what she had to say.

"Is this true?" she asked, holding out her phone for you to see. The screen displayed a news headline in bold red font, the words striking a nerve you had hoped to forget after leaving your hometown.

"Hysterical local woman screams in the middle of the road because of her cheating husband."

The words hit you like a sledgehammer, dredging up painful memories you had buried deep within your psyche.

The article depicted the turmoil of your family's unraveling, captured in a moment of anguish as your mother's cries echoed in the street, desperately trying to stop your father from leaving town after his infidelity was exposed.

You remembered the photo accompanying the article, the image of your mother's despair etched into your memory, and your own face blurred out because of privacy.

The silent solidarity of your hometown community proved to be a saving grace amid the turmoil caused by the resurfacing of painful memories.

Recognizing the deep-seated pain your mother had endured, those who knew each other decided unanimously to keep the news from spreading further.

It was a testament to the empathy and compassion that bound the community together, a shared understanding of the need to protect and respect your family's privacy.

In a gesture of collective empathy, the articles were swiftly taken down, erasing the painful reminders of past traumas. It was a small yet significant act of kindness, shielding you from further anguish and allowing you the space to heal in peace.

As you processed the weight of the revelation, a shiver ran down your spine. The realization that only you and Lloyd knew about your family's painful past cast a shadow of dread over you.

Closing your eyes, you couldn't suppress the tremble coursing through your body.

This was what Lloyd meant by a "crazy mother-in-law," the hidden reason behind his parents' apparent disapproval of you.

Was this his way of expressing his anger?

Was he holding a grudge against you for something beyond your control?

The weight settled heavily on your shoulders, the implications sinking in with each passing moment. It was a bitter pill to swallow, knowing that the person you used to love and grew up with harbored such resentment towards you, all because of a past you couldn't change.

Feeling a mixture of betrayal and hurt, you couldn't help but wonder how long this revelation had been festering beneath the surface, poisoning your relationship with Lloyd from within.

As you stormed out of the classroom, consumed by anger, you barely registered Bucky's greeting as you passed by him. "Good morning..." he called out, his voice trailing off as he watched you go.

Bucky wonders what's wrong with you. This could be the first time he saw you look this angry.

Their fellow classmates exchanged worried glances, sensing the tension in the air. Steve sighed heavily, explaining the situation to Bucky. "This article is on the college homepage," he informed him.

Bucky's eyes narrowed with fury as he read the article, his anger evident in his expression. "Someone tried to embarrass her. Using her family issues? It's a privacy violation. She could sue that person," he muttered, his voice laced with indignation.

Though his words were spoken softly, the intensity of his anger was palpable. Those nearby paused in their gossip, their attention drawn to Bucky's righteous indignation.

The realization that Bucky, with his influential family background, was taking a stand in defense of your privacy silenced them immediately.

Recognizing the potential repercussions of their actions, they hastily deleted their comments on the article, understanding that stirring up controversy with someone connected to such power was unwise.

🏈

Lloyd's grip tightened around the weights as he tried to channel his mounting frustration into his workout. The rhythmic clank of metal against metal provided a brief respite from the storm raging inside him.

His solitude was abruptly interrupted by the arrival of his fellow teammates, their voices pulling him back to the present moment.

"Have you seen the university news bulletin?" they asked, their expressions tense with anticipation.

Lloyd shook his head dismissively. "Nobody reads any news from that," he replied, his voice laced with disdain.

But as they showed him the article, his heart sank. With growing disbelief, he read the words printed before him, his mind struggling to comprehend the gravity of what he was seeing.

"What?" he muttered, his voice barely above a whisper, his brows furrowing in confusion.

And then, amidst the clangor of the gym, a voice cut through the noise like a knife. "Lloyd!"

Turning abruptly, Lloyd's gaze met yours, his breath catching in his throat at the sight of your furious expression. As you stormed towards him, your eyes ablaze with anger, he felt a pang of guilt wash over him, realizing the extent of the pain he had caused you.

Meeting your gaze, he could see the raw hurt reflected in your eyes, and the weight of his actions settled heavily on his shoulders. "How dare you!" you exclaimed, your voice trembling with emotion.

"I thought you understood how painful this was for me. You were there the whole time. How could you do this to me?"

As your words hung heavy in the air, Lloyd felt the crushing weight of his betrayal, knowing that he had caused you more pain than he ever intended.

With a heavy heart, he searched for the right words to express his remorse, but the damage had already been done, and he could only watch helplessly as you stood before him, your trust in him shattered.

As Lloyd reached out to touch your shoulder, seeking to offer some semblance of comfort, you recoiled from his touch, the pain of betrayal still fresh in your mind.

His expression softened as he realized the depth of your mistrust. "It wasn't me," he began, his voice tinged with remorse. "I'm a jerk. I know that. But this is not me."

You wiped away your tears, your gaze piercing as you challenged him. "Then who? Only you and me know about this."

Lloyd opened his mouth to respond, but his words caught in his throat as a sudden realization washed over him. His heart sank as he remembered the one person he had confided in about your family's struggles: Nicky.

"Nicky," he muttered, his voice filled with dread as he pieced together the puzzle. Without another word, he hurriedly left the gym, his eyes scanning the surroundings in search of her.

But she was nowhere to be found, leaving him to grapple with the consequences of his mistake and the damage it had caused to your fragile trust.

Gritting his teeth in frustration, Lloyd cursed under his breath. The realization that Nicky's loose lips had cost him any hope of reconciliation with you gnawed at him like a festering wound.

Anger boiled within him as he realized this spoiled princess had ruined his chances of earning your trust back.

As he glanced back at you, the look of pure hatred in your eyes cut him to the core. It was a stark reminder of the depth of the betrayal you felt and the certainty that you would never forgive him this time.

At that moment, Lloyd knew that he had lost you. The love and affection you once held for him had been replaced by an unbridled hatred, leaving him to grapple with the consequences of his actions and the bitter taste of regret.

You hate him.

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Author Note:

Hey friends,

If you've been enjoying the content, I've set up a Ko-fi account. Your support through tips would mean the world and help me keep creating. Only if you feel like it!

Here's the link: Ko-fi

Thanks a bunch for being fabulous followers!

[broomsick]

Holy spaces & shrines in the modern norse path

Before we dive into the oh-so-diverse topic of holy spaces, let me first specify a few practical tips!

I’m very much aware that the definition of the term “holy” is deeply subjective and varies depending on one’s opinions. I’ll elaborate on a few of my thoughts on the topic further!

In no way are you bound by any rule regarding this aspect of paganism.

I will base my post off of my research, granted, but also on my personal experiences and practices!

Now, what makes a holy space sacred? Not necessarily "holy" per say, but simply sacred.

The very first factor to consider is, what is sacredness? Lots and lots of pagans engage mostly in solitary practice, so much is true. Which is why lots of us find ourselves gravitating towards spaces others may not necessarily find any sense of "sacredness" in. The corner of your room where you tend to pray the most? Sacred. Or the spot in your garden where you perform your harvest ritual every year! It’s the connection we feel to the space that makes it sacred in the first place. But a space being holy depends on whether or not we choose to anoint it in such a way.

When something is sacred to me, I tend to feel a sort of spiritual pull. A swelling of the heart, if you will, like the feeling I get when faced with a breathtaking landscape. The feeling of spiritual connection to a particular spot is the first intuition one needs to tune into when choosing a holy space. After all, staying in tune with one's intuition might be one of the most important aspect of any spiritual practice.

Within nordic practice, a holy space is often called vé, a sacred enclosure. Vé's are attested in numerous toponyms as well as ancient texts, such as Beowulf, or the Skáldskaparmál. Their omnipresence in Scandinavian toponyms might, when considered through a pagan lense, signify something quite interesting: the holiness of a space depends on the space itself, its location, rather than what's inside it— or rather, how grand and ornate it is. When building a holy space for oneself, one does not need lavish decoration, or an elaborate shrine with the gold foil and the statues.

However, there are a few steps one can follow in order to anoint a space as holy, if one wants to reconstruct a few practices from pre-Christian Scandinavia. Although I'll specify that as always, no rule is set in stone when it comes to neopaganism. The choice to abide by them or not is entirely up to the practitioner. And in any case, even as I was gathering these few ideas, it was clear that, as always, pre-Christian practices centered around holy spaces vastly differed depending on the place and the time. Regardless, I think it's fun to do some research on the topic in order to reconstruct on our own terms a holy space in the nordic tradition.

The first step? Having a good knowledge of your area. Both before and during the Viking Age, holy places were more often than not located outside. It can be a great help to know where to find the greenery in one's area. Is there a beach near home that the public has access to? How about a large park where you can spend some time alone without being bothered? Even your backyard does the trick! Anywhere you can see the sky and breathe the open air is already perfect. Now, the Germanic tribes would generally worship near an object of particular importance, such as a grove, a body of water, a clearing in the forest, a hill... Although this doesn't seem to be very present in historical attestations, and considering I'm devoted to Yngvi-Freyr, I'm an especially big fan of worshipping in plains, or fields!

I think it's important for me to note that if you are lucky enough to live near a body of water, you can choose to engage in one of the most popular forms of offering in nordic historical practice: throwing offerings out to sink into the water! This practice was especially widespread, evidence of it having been found as far as Britain and Iceland. Evidently, if one chooses to engage in such a practice, it's important to respect the ecosystems and stick with offerings that won't damage them (acorns, stones, flowers and the like). As for an outdoors shrine located in a forest, or near woodland, it would have been customary during pre-Christian times to center a holy space around a tall tree, perhaps representing the World Tree Yggdrasil.

Considering lots of neo-pagans prefer to keep their practice discreet, it goes without saying that the holy space of your choosing does not need to be especially big, nor especially decorated. It can be as small as it is humble! One of the spaces where I most like to worship is the little corner of the yard, tucked under a cedar tree, where I rebuild my hörgr every year, as soon as the snow melts for good. Nothing too flamboyant!

Now, the second step to building a little outdoors shrine for yourself is to choose a representation of the deity to adore. It's said that the human-like appearance of this representation mattered little to the Germanic tribes, whose representations of the Gods could be rather simple, and not especially ornate. For this reason, it would be perfectly logical to even choose an object associated with the deity in question to serve as the main representation placed in the sanctuary. If we're talking about Freyja, a falcon statuette, or feather could do the trick! As for Fenrir, any wolf imagery could work as well! In the case of Thórr, one could replicate the case of Donar's Oak and choose to center their shrine around a particular tree (the rowan are the oak would make the best choices, if one is to pick a tree sacred to Thórr). These are just examples, and the possibilities in this regard are limitless. This "main" representation can be used as the center of your sacred space, and given offerings during rituals or celebrations. In my case, I like greet this representation both when "entering" the sacred space and when leaving it, as a sign of respect!

If one so desires, it's possible to set up some kind of "delimitation" in order to mark the entrance of the sacred space, or its outline. I like to place either ribbons on nearby branches, or litter stones here and there to lie in a loose circle (we wouldn't want to block the rays of the sun from reaching the earth and keep the greenery from growing). In order to signal the entrance of shrines, the Germanic tribes would generally use heaps of dirt or pillars of stone, among other things.

Another intresting element one might include in their sacred space is the presence of fire! Whether this be a bonfire, incense, a simple candle or even just a handful of ash, there's lots of ways to include the "element" of fire into a modern day shrine. It's a means of warming up the space, so to speak: tending a fire in the shrine is akin to having a hearth in the home!

Ideas for common, historically attested offerings: Ethically-sourced animal bones, gold or golden jewelry, tools, representation of the Gods, beads and beaded jewelry, alcohol, food and meat…

Now, let's pull away from the history lesson and let's dive into modern, neo-pagan practice! I'd wager some of you are wondering, how exactly can one keep a whole shrine, but make their practice as low-key as possible?! After all, I know firsthand that solo practice is especially common among neo-pagans. So my answer to this question is, who said anything about keeping? One piece of advice I've already given to a few fellow pagans in the past is to create a little portable shrine all to yourself! Let me explain myself: you arrive at your chosen location, you put down a basket full of decoration and you put up a temporary space in which to worship for an hour or two. You take out a deity representation, a few candles (if they're allowed on site!), a handful of offerings and a cloth on which to place them. And when you're done with the ritual, you pack up your things and make sure you leave the site as clean as when you first found it. In other words, what I’m suggesting is the possibility of gathering a few designated worship items in order to make oneself a portable, personal little shrine! It might seem like a silly idea at first, but I’ve discovered it’s not only a fun habit, but it’s also greatly helpful on a tight schedule to have a quick and easy way to engage in outdoors practice.

As always, I wrote this post aiming to help fellow pagans find ways to balance historical practice and modern, solo practice! I hope these few ideas did the trick, and wish you all a good and plentiful spring season!

First picture

[fanficapologist]

Of Dragons and Maelstroms

Themes and Warnings: slow burn, enemies to lovers, blood, violence, explicit language, sexual violence, period-typical misogyny, sexual themes, smut, tension, marriage, jealousy, pregnancy, childbirth, miscarriage, attempted sexual assault, breastfeeding, major character death, divergent timelines

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the House of The Dragon/Fire & Blood/Game of Thrones characters nor do I claim to own them. I do not own any of the images used nor do I claim to own them.

Chapter Seventy-Eight

Maera’s initial instinct was to turn away, her dislike for Alys still lingering. But as she watched the other woman’s distress, a pang of empathy tugged at her heartstrings. With a hesitant step forward, Maera approached Alys, her uncertainty masked by a steely resolve. Though their interactions had been fraught with tension, the sight of Alys in distress stirred something within her, prompting her to set aside their differences, if only momentarily.

"Is it the babe?" Maera inquired softly, her voice laced with worry as she drew nearer to the witch.

Alys nodded, her breaths coming in shallow and labored. "I think my time is coming," she admitted between deep inhalations, her grip tightening on her belly.

Maera glanced back toward Harrenhall, weighing the distance in her mind and silently debating whether they should attempt to make their way back. "Shouldn’t we get you inside?" she suggested, her concern evident in her tone.

But Alys shook her head vehemently, dismissing the idea. "No. The pain is not coming consistently. I will be fine after a moment," she insisted, her voice determined despite the discomfort etched on her features.

Maera observed Alys's breathing through her contraction, her own memories of childbirth flooding back. She remembered the varied experiences she witnessed at Rain House, each labor unique in its intensity and duration. Some women endured the pain with stoicism, while others vocalized their agony. Maera's hand instinctively drifted to her own bump, a silent acknowledgment of the impending journey she too would soon undertake.

True to her words, Alys soon straightened up, a few settling breaths, signaling the end of her discomfort, casting a tender stroke over her bulging abdomen. "I would rather be outside, listening to the Gods. And smelling the lavender," she confessed with a serene smile. However, there was an unsettling undertone to her expression that made Maera uneasy.

A wave of apprehension crashed down on her at the thought of Aemond’s child by Alys being born. Maera was not stupid and knew the dynamics would change when another silver-haired child entered the small court within Harrenhall, with the witch no doubt using her status as mother to the Prince’s first-born child to gain influence.

Breaking the uneasy silence that followed, Maera hesitated before speaking. "What have the Gods been saying?" she asked tentatively, her curiosity mingled with apprehension.

"Many things," Alys replied casually, her gaze sweeping their surroundings once more. "I just want to ensure this is what they want."

Alys retrieved a dagger from her sleeve with a fluid motion, causing Maera to instinctively recoil, her hand protectively cradling her swollen belly. With a swift, deliberate movement, Alys sliced through her palm, a deep gash welling with blood. Maera's eyes widened in horror as she watched the crimson liquid spill from the wound, staining the ground below.

"What are you doing?!" Maera exclaimed, her voice tinged with alarm and disbelief.

Alys met her gaze with an unnerving intensity, her eyes gleaming with an enigmatic resolve. "I must apologize, Princess Maera," she began, her voice carrying an unusual solemnity. "I have been wrong, on many fronts. The vision the Gods put forward to me… I do not think it will come to pass."

Maera's heart quickened with apprehension, her senses on high alert as she warily watched the witch's next move. Alys motioned for her to come closer, and despite her inner resistance, Maera found herself drawn toward the spilled blood, compelled to heed the witch's call. With hesitant steps, she approached, her gaze fixed on the crimson droplets falling from Alys's hand to the stone below.

As the blood pooled and trickled across the rough surface, Maera couldn't tear her eyes away. Each rivulet seemed to carve its own path, weaving a macabre tapestry upon the stone. A sense of foreboding settled over her, the sight of the blood's journey leaving her unsettled and apprehensive.

"Do you see how the blood makes its way through the gaps in the stones?" Alys questioned, her tone solemn yet strangely impassioned. Maera nodded silently, her eyes fixed on the crimson trail.

"It flows freely, going where it is meant to go," Alys continued, her voice carrying a sense of revelation. "But look there," she pointed, her finger tracing the path where the blood ceased to flow, halted by a cluster of obstructing stones. "There are stones in the way of this path. Therefore, the blood cannot pass through."

Maera's brow furrowed in confusion, her mind grappling with the significance of Alys's words. Glancing to the side, the Princess’s green eyes locked onto the knife in the witch’s hand, adorned with sapphires and emeralds. After a few moments, her breath caught in her throat, recognising the blade as her own, previously decorated by Aemond as a gift

Her thoughts spun wildly as she tried to make sense of the situation. How had Alys obtained the dagger? Had she been in Maera's chambers? The violation of her privacy left Maera feeling exposed and vulnerable, a sense of unease settling deep within her. There were two possible solutions; Alys had forced her way in or she had allies within the castle that allowed her entry. Either way, it filled Maera with dread.

"There are obstacles blocking the path of the Gods' vision too," the witch surmised, a small smile playing on her lips. "And they must be removed so the Prince that is promised can come to be."

Maera felt a chill run down her spine as the atmosphere shifted, the air turning cold and ominous. As the dagger glinted menacingly in the sunlight, Maera's mind raced with a thousand unanswered questions, her heart hammering in her chest with panic. Her muscles tensed, every instinct urging her to flee, to put distance between herself and the dangerous woman before her. But fear rooted her in place, her body refusing to obey her desperate plea for escape.

Swallowing hard, she managed to muster a meek question, "What obstacles?"

Alys's smile widened into a knowing grin. "You."

With a sudden, swift movement, the witch lunged forward, wielding the knife in her hand. Maera reacted instinctively, ducking to evade the attack. As she tried to push herself away from Alys, the witch seized her by the hair, eliciting a sharp cry of pain from Maera.

"Get off me, you bitch!" Maera screamed, her voice filled with desperation as she fought against Alys's hold. With a surge of adrenaline, Maera managed to break free, her heart pounding with fear and determination. As Alys attempted to strike with the dagger, Maera intercepted her hand, gripping it tightly to prevent the blade from reaching her heart.

"Through the binding of a son and daughter, the King of Kings will be born, to unite and conquer the world," Alys growled, her eyes gleaming with a manic fervor as she struggled against Maera's resistance. She tilted her head, a twisted grin spreading across her face. "What a shame it is that it won't be your daughter, though. A waste of my efforts."

Maera's blood ran cold at the witch's words, her mind reeling with horror and disbelief. With all her strength, she pushed against Alys, their struggle intensifying as they grappled with each other.

"You are insane!" Maera shouted, her voice trembling with a mixture of fear and outrage as she confronted the deranged witch before her.

Alys pushed Maera back against the tree, the rough bark digging into her back and stealing her breath. Maera’s heart pounded with fear as she desperately tried to fend off the dagger wielding witch. With a surge of adrenaline, she managed to grab Alys’s wrist, but her strength waned against the relentless force of her attacker.

“I am a mother. And I am ensuring the safety of my son,” Alys sneered, her face contorted with malice as she pressed the dagger dangerously close to Maera's skin. “You cannot fault me for that, surely.”

Maera gritted her teeth, her muscles straining against the pressure as she fought to keep the blade at bay. But Alys’s strength proved overwhelming, and Maera felt a searing pain as the dagger plunged into her upper left arm, piercing through muscle and bone with merciless precision.

Agony consumed Maera as she cried out in anguish, the sensation unlike anything she had ever experienced, even in the heat of sparring. Beads of sweat formed on her brow as she struggled against the overwhelming pain coursing through her body.

As Alys attempted to strike again, driven by a sinister determination, Maera summoned the last vestiges of her strength. With a surge of adrenaline, she delivered a fierce headbutt to Alys's face, causing the witch to stagger backward and collapse to the ground in a stunned heap.

Despite the searing pain radiating from her arm, Maera gritted her teeth and applied pressure to the wound as she attempted to flee from her attacker. But as she sprinted past, Alys's hand shot out and seized Maera's ankle, causing her to lose her balance and fall backwards onto the ground among the fragrant lavender. Desperation fueled Maera's actions as she placed her hand on her bump, her senses heightened as she scanned her surroundings for any sign of help.

Alys's bloodied face bore a twisted expression of malice as she crawled closer, her intentions unmistakably sinister. Maera's instinct for self-preservation kicked in once more as she lashed out, her foot connecting with Alys's body in a desperate bid to keep her at bay. But the witch's relentless pursuit proved unyielding as her arm descended once again, driving the dagger into Maera's upper left thigh with a sickening thud.

A cry of agony tore from Maera's lips as she writhed in excruciating pain, the sharp sting of the blade sending shockwaves of torment through her body. Each movement seemed to intensify the searing agony as she fought to protect herself and her unborn child from the malevolent intentions of her assailant.

With trembling hands, Alys withdrew the knife from Maera's thigh, sending a spray of blood across the lavender field. Maera's cries pierced the air as she watched in horror, her heart pounding with terror. Before she could comprehend the next move, Alys's gaze shifted, her eyes narrowing on Maera's swollen belly.

In a desperate surge of maternal instinct, Maera lashed out with her uninjured arm, delivering a fierce blow to Alys's face. The force sent the witch tumbling to the ground, buying Maera a precious moment of respite. Despite the searing pain radiating from her thigh, Maera attempted to stand, her screams mingling with the rustle of lavender in the breeze. Every movement was agony, but driven by sheer determination, she began to limp back towards Harrenhall.

“Someone please help me!” She yelled in desperation.

But Alys was relentless, her laughter echoing ominously, a chilling sound in the quiet clearing. “Who is coming to help, Princess?” she taunted, her voice dripping with scorn as she attempted to pick herself up off the floor, blood covering her face and dress. “Your husband is gone. Your protector is gone. Your brother-in-law is gone. There is no one to help you.”

As despair threatened to consume her, Maera found herself surrounded by the harsh sunlight, her senses overwhelmed by the scent of crushed lavender and the metallic tang of blood. Every breath felt like a struggle, each heartbeat echoing her growing panic.

Then, like a beacon of hope, a familiar shadow fell over the clearing, casting a comforting darkness that offered solace amid the chaos. A loud, guttural roar followed, echoing through the air and sending shivers down Maera's spine. It was a sound she knew well, a sound that promised salvation.

With a thunderous thud, the great blue and black dragon, Ēbrion, descended upon the lavender field, his massive form dominating the landscape. His wings, spanning wide, seemed to blot out the sun, casting a cool shadow over the ground below. The sheer power and presence of the dragon were awe-inspiring, a reminder of the strength and protection he offered.

As Maera limped toward him, each step a battle against pain and exhaustion, Ēbrion lowered his head to meet her gaze. With a soft trill, he welcomed her, offering a sense of security in the midst of turmoil. The Princess reached out to touch his chest, feeling the reassuring warmth of his scales beneath her fingertips. Maera struggled to stay conscious, each breath felt like a battle against suffocating darkness. Her vision blurred, the world spinning around her in a dizzying whirl of pain and exhaustion. With every cough, she tasted the metallic tang of blood, a grim reminder of the wounds she had sustained.

Amidst the haze of agony, Maera's senses sharpened at the sound of Ēbrion's trills morphing into menacing growls. With a surge of determination, she turned her gaze to the great dragon, her loyal companion, who stood tall and imposing, his eyes ablaze with fury.

Ēbrion fixed his gaze on the figure of Alys, the witch who had dared to harm his rider, Maera watched as the air crackled with tension. Alys's eyes widened in shock, her cat-like gaze filled with fear as she met the dragon's menacing stare. In that moment, Maera realized that there was no mercy left to offer, no forgiveness to be found.

“Ēbrion!” The Princess called up to her mount, who turned his head slightly to look at her, but Maera’s gaze remained fixed onto the witch. As Alys locked eyes with her, a flicker of fear and perhaps a tiny glimmer of hope danced within the depths of the witch's gaze. But as Maera's expression hardened into one of anger and determination, Alys's facade crumbled. The hope in her eyes extinguished like a dying ember, replaced by a stark realization of her impending fate.

“Dracarys!” The dragon gladly complied, unleashing a torrent of searing flames upon Alys and the surrounding lavender field. The air crackled with the intensity of the blaze as flames danced and licked hungrily at the once serene landscape. Maera stood her ground, refusing to look away, as she watched Alys and the vibrant blooms around them succumb to the inferno.

In a matter of moments, both Alys and the tranquil field were consumed by the merciless flames, reduced to nothing more than ash and smoke. As the blaze subsided, leaving behind only charred remnants and smoldering embers, Maera’s strength wavered and she slumped onto the ground against her dragon, as the sound of shouting could be heard from a distance. She began to close her eyes, succumbing to the darkness, exhausted and weakened.

“You can rest easy, Princess. The babe is unharmed.”

In her chambers, Maera lay on her bed looking out of the window, the soft light filtering through the glass casting a gentle glow upon her weary form. Her hair, usually meticulously kept, was now a tangled mess, strands falling loosely around her shoulders in disarray. The color had drained from her face, leaving behind a pallor that spoke of the ordeal she had endured.

The room itself bore signs of the recent invasion by Alys, with scattered items lending an air of disarray to the usually neat surroundings. A sense of solemnity hung heavy in the air, a silent reminder of the violence that had unfolded just hours ago.

She attempted to piece together a timeline of events, her mind wandering back to the moments before she had lost consciousness in the lavender field. The memory was hazy, blurred by the fog of pain and blood loss. She vaguely recalled the sensation of Ēbrion's presence, his towering form offering both protection and solace amidst the chaos.

Footsteps approaching had signaled the arrival of the guards from Harrenhall, their presence a welcome relief in her dazed state. Surprisingly, Ēbrion had allowed them to take her from his side, as the beast must have sensed their intention to offer help.

Once back in her chambers, Maester Cain had tended to her wounds with skill and efficiency, her lack of consciousness sparing her the sight of the cauterisation and stitching. Despite the pain and the scars that would mark her body, Maera's thoughts were consumed by one concern above all others—the safety of her unborn child.

Upon regaining consciousness, her first question had been about the well-being of her baby, and the maester's reassurance had brought her a measure of peace in the midst of turmoil. As Maester Cain attended to her, Maera felt a mixture of discomfort and detachment from the light-hearted interaction.

She watched silently as the maester measured her bump and felt for the baby's movements, her thoughts consumed by the recent ordeal she had endured. When the baby kicked the maester in the face, eliciting a chuckle from him, Maera couldn't muster a smile in return.

The weight of what had happened bore heavily on her mind, casting a shadow over the momentary distraction provided by the baby's antics. Despite the assurance of her child's safety, Maera found herself grappling with a whirlwind of emotions. The innocent life within Alys’s womb that had been lost left her questioning her own role in the tragic outcome. She felt a profound sense of responsibility, unsure of what it meant for her identity and her place in the world. The ordeal had left her grappling with existential questions, her sense of self shaken to its core.

As Maester Cain tended to her injuries, Maera found herself engulfed in a whirlwind of emotions. Confusion, anger, anxiety, despair, shock, and a pervasive sense of distrust for others all vied for dominance within her. Yet amidst the cacophony of conflicting feelings, an overwhelming numbness settled over her, cocooning her in a detached state of mind.

Once the maester had finished his ministrations and Maera was made presentable, she accepted his arm for support, feeling the lingering effects of her injuries. Though her mobility would gradually return with time, the wound on her thigh would make walking difficult for the foreseeable.

Rounding the corner, Maera's gaze fell upon Lord Unwin, who swiftly rose from his chair with an air of respect, acknowledging her presence with a nod. Despite the turmoil raging within her, Maera managed to muster a sad smile in return, silently grateful for the semblance of normalcy his presence provided. Taking the seat beside him, she felt a measure of solace in his company, his quiet support offering a beacon of comfort amidst the storm that raged within her.

“Princess, thank the Gods you are alive,” Lord Unwin exclaimed, his voice heavy with relief. Maera found herself unable to respond, grappling with a profound sense of ambivalence. What significance did her continued existence hold in the wake of the harrowing ordeal she had endured? Broken, maimed, and traumatised, Maera struggled to discern any tangible value in her survival, her inner turmoil eclipsing any semblance of gratitude for being alive.

When Lord Unwin reached out to touch her hand, she allowed the contact, though her expression remained distant and troubled. “I have spoken with the guards about their lack of presence today,” Lord Unwin continued, his tone reassuring. “It will not be repeated. There will be no more threats outside nor inside this castle.”

Maera remained silent for a long moment, detached from reality as her thoughts were consumed by the haunting memory of her confrontation with Alys. The details of the guards' presence, or lack thereof, held little sway over her now, offering neither solace nor closure in the aftermath of the witch's attack.

Alys had attacked her cruelly, with the intention to kill Maera and her child. But now nothing remained of the witch, or the babe she carried in her womb. Just the indelible mark of her actions, etched in the charred remnants of the lavender field where justice had been meted out by the flames of Ēbrion's breath. Upon Maera’s own command.

The hatchling will be scorched by dragon fire in the castle of the old Kings Curse

Finally, Maera spoke, her voice barely above a whisper, thick with anguish. “I am a monster.”

The Maester's gentle voice interjected, his expression filled with empathy. “Do not say such things, Princess,” he urged, his eyes conveying understanding. But Maera shook her head, her anguish evident.

“I killed her,” Maera stated, the admission weighing heavily upon her. “I killed her baby. Who was just about to be born.”

“You were protecting yourself. And your child,” Lord Unwin declared firmly, his tone unwavering as he sought to offer solace and justification for Maera's actions.

Yet she continued to grapple with the weight of her actions, she found herself mired in a profound moral quandary. Despite the undeniable necessity of defending herself and her unborn child against Alys's malevolent onslaught, Maera couldn't shake the unsettling parallel she drew between her own actions and those of the Rogue Prince Daemon, who had ordered the death of Jaehaerys and orchestrated the recent attempt on Maera's own life, gnawed at her sense of morality, blurring the line between righteousness and retribution.

Was she truly any better than Daemon, whose transgressions had wrought sorrow upon the realm? The realization that she had extinguished not only Alys's life but also that of the innocent babe nestled within her womb weighed heavily upon her soul, leaving her adrift in a sea of moral ambiguity.

Raised in reverence of the faith of the Seven, Maera found herself grappling with the teachings of the late Lady Gael, who instilled the Mother’s mercy in her daughter. But how could she reconcile her devout faith in the teachings of the Seven, particularly the tenets of mercy and forgiveness, with the stark reality of her role as arbiter of life and death?

The Princess rested her head in her hands, feeling the weight of her guilt bearing down on her. She took a deep breath, attempting to steady herself amidst the turmoil. “The Gods will never forgive me,” she whispered, her voice heavy with remorse. A sudden worry crossed her mind, and she looked up at both men, her expression filled with apprehension. “What will Aemond say?”

Lord Unwin's response was swift and unforgiving. “The Prince should have slain her long ago,” he scoffed, his tone sharp with disdain for Alys and the threat she posed.

Maera furrowed her brow as she thought about her husband, her nails digging into her palm with resentment. Aemond had stated he had never wanted this child with Alys, nor would he acknowledge it when it was born. And yet he was the one stupid enough to lie with her, as well as spare her life even though she had deceived him, allowing the child in her womb to flourish.

The realization that Aemond had left her vulnerable at Harrenhall, to run off into war and fight some battle in the name of duty and glory, exposed to the machinations of Alys, fueled Maera's anger to a fever pitch. She couldn't fathom how he could have allowed himself to be ensnared by Alys's deceitful promises, putting not only himself, but his wife and their unborn child at the witch’s mercy.

The Princess had had enough. Fuck him, she thought. When he returned, if he even did, Maera knew that their relationship had been irreversibly altered by the events that had unfolded, leaving her to confront the harsh reality of their fractured trust and the lingering wounds of betrayal.

A sudden sense of clarity washed over her. Time and time again, Aemond had put his duty, his own selfish wants above Maera, for the sake of some ridiculous prophecy he had convinced himself was real. That was one thing, but putting his vision of greatness about his unborn child’s well-being? That was the final straw.

Despite claims of love or being bound by something greater than themselves, Aemond had possessed her through manipulating Maera’s world. To him, the cost did not matter. Not the cost of her family’s life, not the cost of proposals, not the cost of Maera’s own happiness. Yet she forgave him constantly. But the love she held for the child in her womb was leading her down a different path this time.

Would the Prince truly expect that everything would be fine when he returned? That they could all go back to carry out the fairytale of Prince and Princess bound together by fate and destiny? How could he continuously ask Maera to endure but not expect her fury in return?

There was a moment of heavy silence before the Maester intervened, offering his counsel to the Princess. “You have been through quite an ordeal. I advise bed rest for the next few weeks, and to refrain from riding until the wound is fully healed.”

Maera couldn't help but laugh bitterly at the suggestion. “Then we are vulnerable,” she declared, frustration evident in her voice as she gestured in defeat. “Be it from the north or the west, someone will come for Harrenhall. It is the closest war fortress to King's Landing.”

Lord Unwin stepped forward, offering a solution to bolster their defenses. “Allow me to make some arrangements, Princess,” he proposed, retrieving a scroll and presenting it to her. Unfurling the parchment to reveal a map of Westeros, he continued, “We can move some of our men throughout the Riverlands and station them at various points. This way, warning will come quickly if an impending attack is spotted.”

Grateful for his initiative and support, Maera nodded in agreement. “Thank you, my Lord,” she replied, her voice filled with gratitude for the ally who offered counsel and assistance in her weakened state.

As the nights stretched on, Maera found herself trapped in a cycle of sleeplessness and discomfort. The mental torment of her recent ordeal with Alys weighed heavily on her mind, refusing to let her find respite in slumber. She could not stop thinking about how Alys’s blood dripped onto the stone path, how Alys had attacked her with her own dagger, and how she had ordered Ēbrion to set her ablaze.

Dracarys.

The physical pain from her wounds, despite the Maester's efforts and the milk of the poppy, persisted relentlessly. Every movement brought a fresh wave of agony, making even the simplest tasks unbearable. Maera longed for the oblivion of sleep, yet found it elusive amidst the throbbing ache in her arm and thigh.

Adding to her discomfort was the incessant activity of her unborn child. Despite the turmoil Maera experienced, the babe within her seemed unaffected, its movements becoming increasingly vigorous as the nights wore on. With only two moons left until they would be born, the baby had grown considerably, its kicks now strong enough to jolt Maera with a sharp jab to her ribs.

After a week of enduring sleepless nights, the Maester, concerned for Maera's well-being, finally prescribed her essence of nightshade. Relieved at the prospect of finding some reprieve from her insomnia, Maera accepted the Maester's recommendation and took the concoction with a soothing cup of tea before retiring to bed.

As she settled beneath the covers, the essence of nightshade began to take effect, slowly easing the tension from her body and coaxing her weary mind into a state of tranquility. The weight of exhaustion lifted from her shoulders, replaced by a gentle sense of drowsiness that washed over her like a wave upon the shore. However in the depths of slumber, Maera found herself once again trapped within the confines of a haunting nightmare that she knew all too well.

The throne room of the Red Keep loomed before her, its grandeur and majesty casting a sense of foreboding that chilled her to the bone. The room was vast, with towering marble pillars reaching up to support the vaulted ceiling adorned with intricate carvings and golden chandeliers that bathed the space in a soft, flickering light.

“Muña?” Mother? Maera whispered, tears beginning to stream down her face.

As Maera's eyes swept across the room, her heart constricted with a mixture of sorrow and dread as she spotted the familiar figure of her late mother, the Lady Gael, standing at the foot of the Iron Throne. Lady Gael's once radiant silver hair hung in disarray around her shoulders, and her night dress was stained with crimson blood. Unable to resist the pull of the haunting vision before her, Maera approached her mother with hesitant steps, her heart heavy with grief.

She reached out to her in a desperate attempt to save her from whatever unseen threat lurked in the shadows. But before she could reach her, Lady Gael stumbled and fell, her body crumpling to the cold marble floor with a sickening thud. As Maera knelt beside her body, Lady Gael ominously pointed a finger into the distance, directing Maera's attention towards the Iron Throne itself. Confusion clouded her features as she tried to decipher the meaning behind her mother’s cryptic gesture, uncertain of what significance the throne held.

“Skoros kostagon nyke gaomagon, muña? Ivestragon skoros naejot gaomagon!” What can I do, mother? Tell me what to do! Maera weeped, holding onto her mother’s form as if her life depended on it.

Lady Gael, weakened and dying, reached up to tenderly brush a strand of hair from Maera's face. A feeble attempt at a smile flickered on her lips. “Ziry iksos vējes, Maera. Volpe ondoso Jaehossas.” It is fate, Maera. Foretold by the Gods. The colour then drained from her violet eyes, the smile faltered, and Lady Gael succumbed to the relentless grip of the dream's cruel reality

As Maera knelt on the cold floor of the throne room, her gaze drifted to the steps leading up to the Iron Throne, where an array of melted swords stood as a testament to the power of House Targaryen. But amidst the familiar display, she noticed something amiss. Several objects littered the steps, each one a grim reminder of the tragedies that had befallen her family and those she held dear.

The first to catch her eye was the headless body of four-year-old Jaehaerys, his small form lying motionless as blood pooled around him, staining the marble steps a deep crimson. Beside him lay a small, blood-stained cloth, a poignant symbol of the unborn daughter Helaena had lost, a miscarriage brought on by the anguish of losing her beloved son.

Above them was another lifeless body; The husband of her sister Wynni and one of the perpetrators of the attempt on Maera's life, Lord Alan lay lifeless, his throat slit and eyes vacant, a grim testament to the brutality of the world she lived in, as well as the necessity of the heinous act in order to protect herself and her child.

Beside Lord Alan Tarly's lifeless body lay another gruesome sight that sent a chill down Maera's spine. The charred, burnt remains of Alys Rivers, the witch who had brought chaos and suffering into Maera's life, lay before her. Her flesh was blackened and blistered, smoke still rising from her charred form. Despite the devastation, her decomposed hand cradled her large, blackened bump, a grim reminder of the innocent life lost in the chaos of their confrontation.

As the faint sound of a baby's cry pierced the air, Maera felt a wave of guilt wash over her. The knowledge that she had ended the life of an innocent child to protect herself filled her with a deep sense of remorse. She pressed her hands over her ears, trying to block out the haunting sound, but it echoed relentlessly in her mind, a reminder of the choices she had been forced to make.

When she finally opened her eyes, expecting to see the specter of her mother's death once more, Maera was met with a sight far more chilling. Resting in her lap was the lifeless body of Aemond, her husband, his once-vibrant violet eye now dull and lifeless. Blood oozed from his mouth, staining his colorless face, while his silver hair was matted with crimson.

The sight of Aemond's corpse sent a shockwave of agony through Maera's heart, and she felt as though the world around her was collapsing in on itself. In that moment, she was consumed by grief and despair, the weight of loss crushing her spirit as she stared down at the lifeless form of the man she had loved.

As Maera's consciousness clawed its way back from the depths of her nightmare, she found herself gasping for air, her chest heaving with each ragged breath. A desperate, blood-curdling scream tore from her throat, echoing in the silence of her chambers as she fought to shake off the tendrils of the dream that still clung to her mind.

With trembling hands, Maera reached out to her swollen stomach, seeking solace in the reassuring kicks of her unborn child. The gentle movement beneath her touch served as a grounding force, a reminder of the life growing within her amidst the chaos and turmoil of her thoughts.

But as her gaze swept across the empty space beside her in the bed, Maera's heart clenched with a pang of longing and sorrow. In that moment, all she could think about was Aemond – her husband, her betrayer, the man who had torn her life apart with his ambitions and prophecies.

The realization of how deeply entwined her fate was with his sent a shiver down her spine, filling her with a sense of dread and apprehension. If Aemond were to die – if the nightmare were to become reality – it would destroy her all over again, leaving her adrift in a sea of grief and despair from which she feared she would never escape.

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[takeme-totheworld]

I think what bothers me the most about the "Aziraphale doesn't have religious trauma" argument (which I've seen from many many different people, this is not aimed at anyone in particular) is that it's usually based on the idea that religious trauma = trauma based on being taught to believe in something imaginary, whereas in the GO universe God and Satan and Heaven and Hell are all real.

And like...yes, that's true and I understand where the people who say this are coming from.

But "being taught to believe in something imaginary" is actually not the basis for a lot of what I saw in Aziraphale that I identified so strongly with along religious trauma lines.

You know what things are a hundred percent real?

The church I was raised in and the heavy sway it holds over its members.

Institutional Christianity in general and its influence on the world in general and my country (the US) in particular.

The indoctrination I was subjected to, which was not only about the alleged existence of God, Satan, etc, but was also very much about inculcating us all with a very specific (and harmful) moral framework, and an extremely narrow-minded and tribalistic view toward the rest of society, and intensely harsh, self-punishing rules for being A Good And Righteous Person.

And all those other things, especially the self-punishing moral strictures, have stuck with me far longer and been much more difficult to excise from my brain than the fear of Hell, which I was actually able to dispense with fairly quickly once my brain made all the necessary "oh, this is all bullshit actually" connections.

So when I talk about my personal religious trauma, I'm talking about the trauma I experienced at the hands of a religious institution, which actually encompassed a much broader category of things than "being taught to believe in a scary imaginary mythology." Yes, that was absolutely part of it, and yes, that part was used as the basis to justify the rest of it—but in my case, it was in some ways the least impactful part.

When I see Aziraphale clinging to the belief that Heaven is "the side of truth, of light, of good," I see myself desperately clinging to my love and trust in the basic moral goodness and rightness of the church even when it was measurably harming me. When I see Aziraphale saying things like "it's not for us to understand" or all the weird propaganda about the virtues of poverty in the Edinburgh episode, I see myself parroting real-world ideologies I'd been indoctrinated with growing up, even in the face of factual evidence that life was actually much more complicated than that.

I was taught trust and loyalty toward a deeply harmful institution, I was taught to accept whatever that institution told me was the truth without questioning it, I was taught a bunch of factually wrong and deeply fucked up paradigms about how the actual world of human beings was supposed to work, and I had to work incredibly hard to unlearn all of that. And those are the things I see in Aziraphale that I identify with so intensely and so painfully. And all of those things are also religious trauma.

Anyway, I'm not trying to start an argument about this, just to articulate where I'm coming from. If you are a person who also has religious trauma, who doesn't personally see your experience reflected in Aziraphale, it's totally valid to say that! But to categorically state that it's therefore not religious trauma, or that religious trauma is the wrong metaphor for anyone to use here...just maybe don't do that?

If there's one thing that's become obvious to me in this fandom it's how many different lenses this story can be interpreted through, and it makes me feel icky to see the one that most resonates with me repeatedly and specifically called out as incorrect. By, genuinely, lots of different people, over and over again.

[luckybunny555]

Secret admirer

You receive a strange gift and find out the identity of your secret admirer.

Amber Freeman x GN!/Fem!Reader(no pronouns but for sapphics)

Warnings: creepy behavior, stalking, cursing, usual Ghostface behavior, a little bit of trust issues, being "attacked" but not harmed, mentions of murder and violence(no big description tho), a little suggestive in the end(as a treat ;) )

a/n: Part 2. No bad ending, again. I mentioned a song at some point and if you don't listen to it while reading ur not getting the whole experience, disappointing. also, this one's a bit scarier than part one(at least in my opinion). I'm sorry if ur not actually a scared little bitch like I am, but I made the readed very scared because yes. I didn't proof-read the end bc I used every single brain cell I have to finish this today. I might read it later but no promises.

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3

Because you were texting Amber, you didn't worry about walking home alone. The sun was setting, but you were reaching the front door already.

Amber

I can't believe you fell for that

You

Wha-

Mindy had a straight face when

she said that

I thought she just remembered

the movie better than me

Amber

I literally made you watch it a

hundread times

how could you not remember

also, lmk when you get home

You

what did u expect

I also closed my eyes a hundread

times bc I got scared

I'm already unlocking the door

Amber

ok good

told u you'd be safe with me

;)

You felt a warm feeling in your chest, stupidly staring at her message. The smile on your face was an evident sign of how whipped you were for her. Stepping into your home, you lock the door again, not taking your eyes off your phone.

Amber

I'm throwing a party saturday

My parents will be out, they

got a wedding or smth

ur coming, right?

Your smile grew. "Mom?" you shouted, your voice echoing through the empty house. You finally looked away from your phone, scanning the space around you. The house seemed empty, which was unusual. By that time, your mom should be home. All you could hear was faint music, which your mom probably forgot to turn off before she left the house. You walked towards the kitchen, answering Amber's text.

You

ofc, I never miss ur parties

Amber

Liar

You've missed 3 of my parties

You

ok true, but it wasn't on purpose

I don't have plans this saturday

You find a note on the fridge, "Meeting w/ client @ 5pm". Right. That's where your mom was. You place your phone on the counter, opening the fridge and looking for something to eat. Your phone vibrates again, another notification from Amber

Amber

brb, I'm gonna shower

You read the text from afar, still standing in front of the refrigerator. Grabbing a few ingredients, you place them on the counter, turning off your phone screen. More attuned to your surroundings, you recognize the song playing in the background. "We Belong Together" by Ritchie Valens. You didn't remember where you heard it, though. It was just familiar. And nice to listen to while you cook.

Focused on preparing your food, you're startled by the doorbell. You look at the door with your heart already racing. It was a mundane situation, but does anything feel normal when there's a masked killer around?

Slowly, you approach the door. But instead of opening, you look through the window beside it. No one was there. You can feel your heart pounding in your chest, but you try to brush it off. "These fucking kids," you mutter to yourself, walking back to the kitchen.

You

I'm so stupid lol

Some dumb kid just ding-dong

ditched me and I got so scared

Not so long after, you hear the doorbell ring again. You try to convince yourself it's just a stupid prank. A terrible one to play when Ghostface is a threat, but kids are like that, right? This time, you quickly approach the door, determined to catch the person, opening it even though your hands are shaking.

Still, no one is there. But you find something. There's a box on the floor, with a pink bow on top and a note. "Sorry for scaring you :(". You hesitate, but take the box and lock the door again. You put it on the counter, unsure whether or not you should open it. Could it be from that admirer? Or was it from someone else? Before opening it, you decide to get a second opinion.

You

they left a box at my door

there's a note, "sorry for scaring

you"

should I open it?

I think it's from that stalker, but

idk

You wait a few seconds, but she doesn't read your texts. Maybe you should wait longer, but you're curious. It could be great, it could be horrible. Either way, you wanted to know. Maybe your mind was just being dramatic and this was actually a genuine apology gift. You shake the box, trying to make out what it could be, but it doesn't make a lot of noise. Must be something soft and light.

With your hands slightly trembling, you open it. It takes you a split second to understand it, but once you recognize it, you bring your hand to cover your mouth, your breath catching in your throat. Your favorite stuffed animal, one from your collection, with its head cut off. Beside it, another note. "Why didn't you write me back? >:("

Your head was filled with questions, "did they break into my house?", "how did they get it?", "are they still around?". Your phone rings, snapping you out of your momentary trance. It's Amber's number. She probably read your texts and her protective instinct kicked in. Your right hand was still covering your mouth as you reached for your phone. "Amber?"

"Hello, [name]," you don't recognize the voice. It wasn't Amber's, it was a male voice. And then it hits you: Amber's phone was cloned. By Ghostface. At that realization, you gasp, feeling your heart pounding as if it's trying to escape your chest. "Did you like my gift? And my sweet letters?"

You're too shocked to answer. Frozen in place, your only movements are involuntary. The trembling of your hands, the rise and fall of your chest, the accelerated breathing and heartbeats. An uncontrollable fear takes over you. Your eyes are glued to the torn out toy in front of you.

"Will you forgive me for loving you so much that I'm willing to protect you from everything… and everyone?" They speak again, and you slowly remove your hand from your face, supporting your weight against the counter, feeling weak in the knees.

An ounce of rationality is still left in you, despite the terrifying situation you find yourself in. "Where are you?" You ask with your voice shaking, a satisfying sound for Ghostface.

"Don't worry, I'm not inside... yet," the implied threat makes you shut your eyes instinctively, wishing that everything would disappear. But it isn't the brightest idea, so you open them again and look around, trying to stay alert. "Let's play a game, I'll give you three chances to guess who I am. You have to play by the rules. No calling for help, and don't close your curtains. I need to see if you're playing fair."

The last sentence sends a shiver down your spine. They could see you. Your gaze shifts to the window, terrified to see what you'd find. But hopefully, or not, you only saw the sky turning dark. "No..." Your voice shakes again, and you try to hold back your tears of desperation, "I know better than to play games with you."

"Oh, you don't want to play?" They sound displeased, which fills you with dread. "Let's skip forward then, I'll show you who I am," they say impatiently, "Open the front door."

By that time, the tears were falling to your cheeks. Your pants and gasps were audible through the phone, and it felt like your heartbeats were too. You couldn't move, and you obviously didn't want to let them in, but maybe the choice was merely an illusion. Your cries become more evident through the phone.

"Open the damn door, [name], or I'll get in myself and I won't be as nice as I would be," the caller threatened, and you are completely taken over by fear, filling every fiber of your body.

"Please, don't hurt me," you sob, begging for mercy as you turn around, facing the door a few steps ahead of you. You slowly walk towards it, continuing to plead.

"That's not my plan, sweetheart," Ghostface replies on the phone, "as long as you do what I say."

Your hands never trembled as much as they did once they touched the doorhandle. With a deep, shaky exhale, you open the door, facing the terrifying tall frame, covered in black and hidden behind the Ghostface mask. You let out a whimper as more tears fell to your cheeks. You gasp once your eyes meet the shiny blade in their hand.

In a startling, quick move, you were trapped against the wall, with the knife pressed to your neck, and you drop your phone on the floor. Instinctively, you scream, but the gloved hand covers your mouth before you can make a sound loud enough to be heard. They close the door with their feet, the loud noise making you jump in place. You shut your eyes, not wanting to face them.

The two of you were silent for a moment, the faint music filling the eerie atmosphere along with your sobs and loud breaths, followed by Ghostface's amused chuckle. They slowly removed the hand from your mouth, allowing you to breathe more easily, and you open your eyes, scanning the view in front of you. You didn't make a sound, and you tried your best to steady your breaths as much as you could before you had a heart attack.

"I told you I wouldn't hurt you if you behaved," they break the silence, and amidst the turmoil in your mind, you question their intentions and reasons. What made you different to them? Why hadn't they attacked you immediately, like they did with Tara and Vince?

Well, for one, all their love letters and gifts. Somehow, you had Ghostface in love with you, and you just realized that. Two people in one. And now, you could figure out who they actually were.

"Curious?" They ask, noticing the expression on your face, how you bit your lip, making it seem like the wheels in your mind were turning. "Go on, turn it off," the command, tapping on the voice modifier from the mask with their free hand. Your sobs had momentarily ceased, but your hands were still shaking when you hesitantly reached to press the button. You hear a low chuckle behind the mask, "recognize me now?"

It took you a moment to believe it. To make sense of it. Your eyes widened, and the look on your face was clearly of shock. Subconsciously, your lips part slightly in disbelief. How could it be her? "Amber?" you whisper, your voice faltering with hesitancy. You earn a mischevous giggle from the girl in front of you.

Her free hand reaches up, taking off her mask and throwing it on the floor, once again making you jump at the noise. There's a wicked smile imprinted on her face, staining her image in your mind. Noticing your furrowed brows, her expression changes slightly to one of pity, or remorse.

She pouts, her gaze meeting yours with a sympathetic look, "Aw, baby, I'm sorry I had to scare you," her tone changes to a sickingly sweet, an implied mocking of your position and reaction. "I just find it so cute, y'know?"

You weren't expecting that to be her motive. Deep down, it was starting to make you angry at her. But this feeling was buried by the sensation of the cold blade against your neck. And she still had a lot of explaining to do.

"Remember the first time I made you watch Stab?" She asks you, her voice laced with amusement, and a smile growing on her face. "I mean, it' wasn't even such a scary movie, but you were so terrified," she laughs, and even in that terrible moment, you love the sound.

Imperceptibly, she placed a hand on your hip, keeping you in place and maintaining her control. She looks at you with a sweet, satisfied expression. "It was so adorable. I loved how scared you got," she confessed with such a natural, charismatic demeanor, as if she hadn't planned a whole terrifying scene, just for you.

“You were clinging to me and you wanted me to protect you so bad. And I realized, I wanted that too.” With a wide smile, she chuckles mischievously. Her eyes observe you attentively, taking in every detail, every subtle movement. She loved to see your tear-stained cheeks and glossy eyes. It was terrible, and she knew that, but didn't you look impossibly beautiful in that moment? "That night," she continues, her face getting closer to yours as her eyes find your parted lips, "you begged me to let you stay over and to sleep with me. It was fucking cute, seriously," her eyes meet yours again as she lets out a low chuckle. Even though you hated that moment, how scared you were, you still found the genuity in everything she was saying.

"I could barely sleep, because it felt so good to hold you close, and I really felt like I was protecting you, y’know?" Her tone escalates with passion, emphasizing the sincerity in her words. "From what? Nothing. But it was nice.”

It was infuriating to hear everything. To go through all that terror, just because... she liked it? Why would she go so far to scare you?

“But with time you got over it and you didn’t need me anymore. And I still wanted that. I wanted you to need me to protect you," she continues her monologue, a classic after villain reveals. It was really starting to feel like you were in a stupid slasher movie that she likes so much. "I needed some threat, something dangerous to scare you."

You finally find the courage to cut her off, "That's why you did all of this?" Your tone gave away how irritated you were, although still fearful, "Because you wanted me to feel like... I was in a fucking horror movie?" Your voice becomes slightly bolder, in spite of the risk. You couldn't believe her.

She feigns being offended, then exhales with a quiet chuckle. "Sweetheart, the threats were already there," she responds, her grip tightening in response to her growing intensity. "Like that Vince guy. Gosh, he was a weird fucking creep. And you were scared of him, I know that, but he could actually hurt you. And I would never let that happen," she continues to explain her twisted motives. "It couldn’t be anyone else, because I never wanted you to get hurt. I wouldn’t trust anyone else."

At that mention, you recall his murder. You were with your friends at that bar the night he was killed. You were worried about your safety. He was into Liv, and you could very well be his next target. Amber had noticed the way you held her hand in that moment, tightly with worry, but the threat was real, and she wanted to protect you. Which is exactly what she did. What better way to keep you safe than to eliminate the threat? That's how her mind worked.

The slightest hint of understanding was appearing in your expression. A hint that Amber didn't miss, ever so attentive. "Do you get it now?" she asks genuinely, as if everything she did was right. "It had to be me. Because I would never hurt you. Because other people would," her tone is so sweet and caring, you forget she is the one holding the knife to your neck.

Actually, it doesn't matter. She might be holding it, but it means nothing. The girl in front you could've killed you long ago, yet she was confessing everything she did for you, without drawing a single drop of your blood. She might as well be holding the blade against her heart, because the girl is crazy for you, quite literally. If you got hurt, by any means, it would break her. From the moment she fell for you, protecting you was a necessary act to protect herself.

With that understanding, the clarity of your realization, your anger gradually faded. Her elaborate, sick and twisted web had the purpose of protecting you. She was poisoned with love. Could you blame her for her whole performance? (You totally could)

But you didn't. For the same reason you answered your stalker's letters, and opened the gift box. For the same reason you let Amber convince you to watch Stab a thousand times, despite hating horror movies. Yes, you have terrible taste for lovers. But you love the thrill. With her, you'd have security, protection, a little bit of action and lots of excitement. It was a twisted game, but you knew in the end it was safe to play. Because she was completely, head over heels in love with you.

[...]

[1000sunnygo]

Law really thinks the love Doflamingo shows for his Family is 100% superficial doesn't he.

"You vile human, you only gather people you can use as tools and you had no love for your brother"

"Fine, i have no love for my brother - If that helps you sleep at night."

.

It's just not true.

There are countless evidences against the assumption that Doflamingo sees his family as mere tools. Doflamingo cares them, pampers them - he feeds Diamante's ego, protects Baby 5 from local creeps. He saved abandoned children and raised them (most of whom were scared away by Corazon). He'd kill anyone for laughing at his family's vulnerable sides - their muteness and "funny voice". he took Rosinante back in the crew without a question even though Rosinante was suspiciously absent throughout his entire childhood. He studied Flevance's history immediately upon Law's arrival and was the first person to berate the superstitious ill treatment Law received for his disease, forgave every major failure of Baby 5/Buffalo/Trebol/Sugar/Jiolla during the alliance's raid. These all can't be fake. Doflamingo may sacrifice his Family member as last resort but he does not want that.

Doflamingo is a narcissist sociopath, but there are people who he wants to treat right, as best as he can - an influence that erases empathic outlook towards the world but offer protection and a safe home. If you're a useless coward with weak resolution like Bellamy, you're a nobody. But if you're capable in Doflamingo's eyes, he's got your back.

Law himself subconsciously took advantage of Doflamingo's care for his Family when he halted Doffy by blackmailing Jiolla.

Whether it's due to Doflamingo's experience throughout the "peasant life" or a hint of goodness passed genetically from his parents, Doflamingo's love exists and has a quality compared to as seen in other nobles/world nobles ie. Saint Rosward or Outlook lll.

But it's selective, and Doflamingo can't stand betrayal.

Law despises Doflamingo for doing something he didn't want to.

Whether Doflamingo is by birth a narcissist sociopath or no, he was wronged by his environment and family.

Doflamingo's "family" is a small circle of people, yet he was betrayed within this circle repeatedly. Homing did it first. Then Rosinante. When Doflamingo killed his brother, he had to come in terms with the reality that his blood family are his enemies.

And finally, Law did.

Law overheard Doflamingo's statement that rightfully made him lose his respect and trust. But, once again, it's not what Doflamingo wanted to happen.

Doflamingo's value of "nakama" isn't the same as Luffy or Law's, it doesn't transcend personal goals. He fully endorses his role of a captain, a King, protected by an army who'd lay their lives for him. It's not selfless but doesn't make him as big of a scumbag towards every single human as Law (and Rosinante) assumed he is. If Corazon didn't betray him first, he would've been alive.

Now, what would it be like, if Law and Doflamingo's paths ever cross again?

While Doflamingo remains irredeemable for the crimes he committed in general, imo, his redemption for killing Corazon (in particular) had been resolved once Dressrosa (the people who Corazon wanted to save from Doflamingo) were freed. The final arc is building up antagonists that can't be taken down by a single group of pirates. There will be full-fledged war. If Law and Doflamingo do encounter each other, they'd be on the same side against the same enemy.

Doflamingo's connection with the ones "up higher" is vague at best. There are missing details as to what happened when Doflamingo returned to mariejeoise with Homing's head, how he discovered Imu and/or the national treasure. It's likely that Doflamingo learned the details of Ope ope fruit specifically because he knew Imu's history.

Donquixotes have been repeatedly pitted against Celestial dragons' belief and traditions. Mosjgard being a Donquixote is an interesting detail, probably added as an afterthought for some reason.

Oda wouldn't have made Law a "D" if he isn't meant to play a pivotal role against the Celestial dragons, especially now that it's vaguely confirmed it's his fruit that made Imu immortal. We don't know why Law's family kept the D hidden and what the hidden name "Water" stands for.

Law right now is dragged into another potential revenge subplot but we know blackbeard isn't his to beat. Oda might've separated Law from his crews to directly incorporate him in the Imu plotline instead of the race for One piece.

I think Law's future role doesn't involve combat, at least, it won't be the main focus. Law losing his sword reinforces this assumption.

All these considered, a temporary collaboration of Law and Doflamingo for Imu's downfall isn't entirely off the table - Doflamingo knowing what can be done and Law possessing the "what" that can be done.

Looking forward to their return, hopefully soon.

[worriedvision]

Historically unfortunate in love - Alhaitham

Gender neutral reader, reader is a book. Angst. I know, it's an odd idea, but the idea is that there's this book known for having romance as it's genre, but the book is also known for causing dreams where the reader shows up. Alhaitham takes an interest in this, curious as to what you were. Chaos ensues. There is not a happy ending here, I'm afraid.

--

"Haven't you heard? That book is haunted!"

"My friend tried to read it, but they freaked out when a scary person showed up on their dreams."

"Hasn't that book been around for decades? More than that."

These rumours, and more, spread about you all the time. Your author had been plagued by an unhealthy attachment to you, to the point they found a way to speak to you in their dreams. As odd as it was, it quenched her loneliness.

But since she died, you were still there. Whenever someone picked you up, you'd appear in their dreams until someone else touched your cover. It was nice at first, meeting people, but you hated the fact they'd keep talking about the romance in your pages. People thought you, somehow, could make their hopes of requited love true. After a few decades, you could not bare it any longer.

So, you made yourself as terrifying as possible. People realised you had no patience left for their love problems, the envy over being used and not talked to like your original owner did being a likely culprit, and the rumour changed to you being so terrifying that you weren't worth reading.

Alhaitham heard from these rumours about you, and he felt like he had nothing better to do. He decides to look into you, taking in the contents of your pages, while also interviewing you.

The first night, he could tell you were trying to be scary. That you couldn't really do anything, positive or negative, towards him. You bulk yourself up, but you can't scare him off. He merely sits there, observing you, and you realise that he's different. He isn't there for a romantic reason, he's not there for some entertainment reason.

He asks you about your origins, your author, what you know about your contents. Over time, he grew more interested in you as a person. You grew to trust him and, you realise, you feel romantic feelings for him. Some pages he mentions to you, it feels like they're happening. Those tight feelings, those warm sensations, the stupid smile your face had.

You were scared of it. You knew he couldn't touch you physically, your form was not physical, and he was an attractive man. You knew that, one day, you would lose him to someone who could give him what you couldn't.

So, you hide from him. You expect him to move on, to see that you aren't showing yourself and his experiment would be over.

Nope, he seems to understand this follows the story you are in. You grow distant after showing symptoms of falling in love, and he would persist.

So, he tells you about himself. His grandmother, his job, anything he could he would do.

--

"I didn't take you to be a reader of romance." Kaveh chuckles, spying the book.

Alhaitham tuts, taking the book away before Kaveh can take you away. He walks away, Kaveh realising that whatever you were, Alhaitham grew to like you.

Unfortunately, this does not last.

--

"Please leave." You cry out, Alhaitham not able to find you. "This isn't a good idea, you know this."

"There is no evidence to-"

"No, you are a human being. I know you'll leave."

Those were the last words you said to him. He tried his hardest to call out to you, to tell you how close he felt to you, but nothing worked. Upon reading the rest of the book, his heart sinks as he reads the final chapter.

Your author ended the story with the relationship burning out, the love interest dying in a house fire and the twist being that you were a living possession of the man who loved you. The man comes to terms with the fact you are not real, and he falls in love with someone who ticked all of his boxes.

This must have been the hypothesis of you gifting your reader their desired outcome. People didn't seem to finish reading your story, and the next time he visits you, you know he's finished reading you.

--

"Burn me. End my suffering." You stare coldly, Alhaitham opening his mouth in horror.

He didn't want to lose you, he didn't give a damn if you were real or if you were simply a dream.

"If you cannot burn me, you have to find someone who can."

No, this isn't right! He didn't want to burn you, he hated the idea of you just, being gone. He didn't understand why you were created, but he understands why he likes dreaming so often.

He enjoys his time with you. He looks forward to sleeping, and not solely because he can escape the people that drain him socially. You don't hear any of it, it was as if your creator made this script for you when someone finally finished your story and stuck with you.

He wakes up crying that morning, Kaveh noting his change in demeanor. Alhaitham hands him the book, unable to carry out your only wish, and he tells Kaveh to sleep at that moment.

--

"Are you _? Alhaitham seems to like you very much." Kaveh explains, you decide to show your form and nod in reply. "...Do you really desire an end? Alhaitham cherishes you, which is something I didn't think possible for him."

"I envy him. I can't hold him, and he can find a person to hold." You explain. "It's too much for me. My creator made me in a moment of selfishness, and people keep using me until they get what they desire."

"Alhaitham is a different man." Kaveh explains. "He isn't one for socialising unless entirely necessary."

Unfortunately, that only makes you feel even more sure you wish to be burned. You realise from Kaveh's statement that Alhaitham wouldn't be able to stand you if you somehow became human. You hate this constant cycle with people where you wish to form a physical connection but cannot.

"...I'll fulfill your wish, in return for one thing." Kaveh starts. "I am allowed to give the ashes from your book to Alhaitham."

You suppose there wasn't going to be anyone else willing to risk breaking the law for your own wishes, you observed from being classed as a relic of sorts. You nod, Kaveh looking particularly sad when he realises, completely, that you were truly fed up with being used and thrown away.

"For what it's worth.... Alhaitham truly loves you."

--

When Kaveh burns the book, he calls Cyno to join him to explain the situation. It sounded rather bizarre, however Cyno was understanding enough to know that Kaveh wouldn't make this up, and he did note Alhaitham looks a lot happier than usual. He prepares the bonfire, along with a jar to place your charred pages into once it was completed.

To say Alhaitham was devastated, realising you were gone, was an understatement. He hated sleeping now, knowing for a fact you weren't there, and the charred remains in the jar were the proof you were gone. Your creator was cruel for creating you, Alhaitham couldn't help but recognise. Who makes a book sentient to the point they wish they were human? He didn't know the answer for that question to satisfy his desire for your rest, you must have been miserable up until you felt the flames against your paper, finally feeling the release from this prison you were born in.

Does he move on like the book stated? No. He carries your jar around wherever he can, creating a pouch big enough for you, and whenever someone tried to tease him for it or touch it, he would glare at them. Those stupid enough to try and steal the jar were met with a swift punch to the stomach, catching you before you could hit the ground.

Try as he might, he knew he would have a hold on his heart once filled with you.

[petarabbit2]

Realistic Ace Trappola + Headcanons

Ace headcanons + realistic artwork done with Art Breeder and edited in Clip Art Studio:

Okay so getting straight into it, this is my first post about my headcanons and realistic versions of twisted wonderland characters and the first one being introduced is *drumroll* Ace Trappola! Ace fans, you eating good tonight my chickies (that sounds so weird if u dont think of chickens right away LMFAO).

Sidenote: When headcanoning Ace and all my other characters, I take both factual and some of my personal thoughts/beliefs of the character to construct my headcanons.

So for Ace, its evident that I gave him acne due to reasoning such as his diet (fav food being cherry pie and mentioning his liking towards burgers) plus he is literally a teen boy that also has no women in his life and stereotypically the mother is the one to bring up looks as an issue, so without this Ace probably would have never gotten the right treatment for his acne. 

He’s already a red head so I added on that by giving him freckles. Also, it's known that redheads are more prone to acne, so another note as to why I gave him acne.

For his features for a realistic rendition, I went with a heart shaped face (because Ace’s card suit is hearts) but his widow's peak is hidden beneath his bangs. He has a snub nose shape which is quite round and slightly upturned. He has thicker eyebrows cause we all know bro don’t give a shit about his appearance.

For his hair I went wild, it's extremely fluffy, a bit curly and like shoulder length when wet. Bro has had like two haircuts his whole life and probably smells foul. I also tried to keep to the original style pretty closely without it looking really weird like bro came straight out of an anime. 

I didn't draw the bodies for any of them but Ace is more lanky with long legs and a rectangular body shape, but he has pretty big feet and hands.

Yeah and he's got a light British accent gang I’m sorry 😭 – he uses slang often as well.

Without & With Face Makeup:

Personality and backstory headcanons + a bit of character analysis:

Okay so Ace is one of the very first characters we meet in the game and a good one at that, a lot of people just put him in the category of “dumb friend with one brain cell”, and yes that's kinda true but every person had a reason to be the way they are due to personal experiences. We know in canon that Ace has always lived with his father and older brother but due to the literally no backstory on his mum, I’m saying his parents are divorced which he has much more time with his dad, also by his mannerism being so straight to the point and not sugar coated, this could be due to him being raised in an only male household. Which could also hint to why he “didn't feel committed” to his former relationship in middle school, he was so new to this type of love and got scared. After all he is just a teen, cut my boy some slack. (#1 Ace defender) 

Due to this relationship with his mother and seeing how his parents fell out of love, fought or similar, he’s very bad with women which is why he has only male friends. The only way he would have a girlfriend (or woman friend) is if they were not sensitive to his zero-filter way of speaking and even tell him off for it. (not me doing this since my yuusona is a girl 💀)

It's still mentioned that the whole family gets together around holidays (although this could possibly just mean his grandma and such and not the mothers side) so maybe the divorce wasn't messy and they just didn't love each other anymore, which happens all the time with quick relationships.

Ace is also pretty immature and not into deep and emotional conversations which is common with teen boys (especially around his age group). So not trying to hate, but all those scenarios made up with him comforting the reader and helping them feel better, in reality, he probably wouldn’t have gotten why you're so sad and not really know how to comfort you. Which is completely fine! He's not fully grown in body or mind and people need to accept this.

He definitely makes your mum jokes and sex jokes, bro cannot stop himself laughing when a teacher says anything sex related. He's highly competitive and will sulk if he loses a basketball game or bet with a friend.

Also despite being not very empathetic (not on purpose though), he appreciates the little things. For example, he’d appreciate you remembering his birthday or always having a spare pencil for him in class as you know he always loses his. He really appreciates those friends and even though he lacks in some areas, he will always protect them and stay by their side no matter what.

In conclusion, he's just some teen boy who's still learning about life and people. I had a lot of fun making the realistic design and giving him more depth as a character and I'll be doing this for the rest of the cast and after that maybe side characters?? Only if you guys want it though, I’ll also one day release my yuusona 😞. (she’s my queen get ready yall (hi i’m the 10/10 editor and assistant 😋)) (together, we are big brain)

My editor/assistant cause I can’t grammar or spell to save my life: @cyb3rpnnk 

SIDENOTE: DO NOT REPOST MY REALISTIC RENDITION OF ACE OR ANY OTHER CHARCTER I DO AS YOUR OWN. EVEN THOUGH THE BASE WAS MADE WITH AI IT IS STILL MY CREATION!

However you are permitied to use my headcanoing as your own for art or stories or whatever, just not my realistic rendition.

Hope you enjoyed my take on realistic Ace and my headcanoning!

[biscuitbox23]

The Stag and the Warbler

Pairing: Jaskier/Dandelion x Witcher!Reader.

Summary: The bard has written a song about you. And it has given you a lot to think about.

Author's note: It's a late night thought I've had for a while. Jaskier has always been my favorite character in both the Witcher games, books and the tv show. I wanted to give him a bit of honor by writing this :) —also a little Skyrim reference cuz im not creative in song writing.

Warning: platonic love, fluff, kind of a bittersweet ending.

As Jaskier strummed the strings of his lute, he hummed the tune of a popular ballad. "Our hero, our hero, claims a warrior's heart…" he sang but then paused mid-verse, his forehead creasing in concentration. "I tell you, I tell you, the Witcher comes- no, that does not sound so good," he muttered.

You couldn't help but chuckle at him. You busied yourself with grooming your loyal steed, Melorax. The horse stood still, contentedly munching on bits of hay. While you brushed off dust and dirt from his coat, you could see the tiny frown written on Jaskier's face as he tried to come up with a better verse for his song.

Curious, you asked him, "Who is this hero exactly?"

Jaskier looked up, glad for the distraction. "Ah, well," he said, his fingers stilling on the lute. "It's just a tale, my friend. A story of a brave warrior who fights for justice and honor."

You nodded, understanding the stories that Jaskier shared with you during your travels as a Witcher. Tales like these were always inspiring and entertaining. Jaskier had been your companion for quite a while now, and you had grown fond of his musical talents and witty banter. He would often compare your kinder nature to his friend Geralt, who hailed from a different Witcher school whom you had heard of but never met. After grooming Melorax, you approached the front of the horse and kissed his soft muzzle. The horse whinnied softly, and you smiled at him, feeling content.

"You know I just hunt monsters for coin," you recall, sitting near him as you started the small bonfire.

"Well, yes. But, Y/n of Verden makes a good song subject. Don't you think?" Jaskier smiled widely at you as you put your hands near the fire for warmth. His fingers began strumming on his lute, calmly humming with the tune of his renowned instrument.

You began to listen closely. "With a silver sword gleaming and signs so fierce and cold…" Jaskier sang, "Believe, believe, the Stag of Verden has told."

"Stag?" You asked sheepishly, looking over at him with an expression of confusion.

"Umm… do you prefer to be called deer?" Jaskier asked sheepishly.

"Just confused with the Stag part…" you replied.

"Well, you remind me of a stag."

"How so?" You asked.

"Well, you're strong, very resilient, and almost similar to that of a protector of the realm," Jaskier beamed with poetic pride.

Upon hearing those words, a sense of pride and appreciation washed over you. It was rare for a Witcher to receive such positive recognition, as they are empty vessels of beings whose sole purpose was to slaughter monsters and collect payment. Being regarded as a hero was a new and unexpected experience for you. However, it was evident that most people still saw you as an exterminator who only existed to rid the world of dangerous pests rather than a true hero. All you let out was a slight chuckle.

Jaskier turned his head towards you, and his eyes met yours. He noticed the corners of your mouth curling up, and your eyes sparkled. Curious, he leaned slightly to his right and tilted his head, trying to catch a glimpse of what had caused this reaction in you. "What's so funny, Y/n?" he asked, his voice full of genuine interest and amusement.

"Oh, nothing," you jested. With a look of concern on the bard's face, he turned his gaze back towards his musical instrument, the loot. He asked in a questioning tone, "Is there something wrong with my song? Don't you like it?"

"I assure you that I like it," you said to the worried songwriter before returning to warm your hands by the fire. "Please continue."

Jaskier's face lit up with joy as he responded, "As you wish." He meticulously plucked the strings of his lute, producing a melody that seemed to flow effortlessly from his fingers. His body swayed with the rhythm, and it was clear from his performance that he was a true virtuoso of his craft.

"In the heart of the woodlands, where shadows dance and play Beware, beware, the Stag is on her way For monsters she'll conquer, with every foe she'll slay

You'll know, you'll know, the Stag brings light to the gray."

You were captivated as the bard plucked at the strings of his lute, his voice soft and sweet as honey. The music wrapped around you like a warm embrace, easing the tension in your body and calming your mind. The bard's songs were beautiful masterpieces of melody and meaning. What impressed you the most was how his music seemed to capture the essence of the world around you, bringing to life the sights and sounds of your travels in a way that words alone never could. Being a Witcher often meant living a life of solitude and danger. It made you feel isolated and alone. But having the bard by your side changed everything. His easy conversation and quick wit were a constant source of comfort and amusement, and you eagerly looked forward to every new adventure with him by your side.

By the end, you knew you could never repay the bard for all he had given you, but you were grateful nonetheless.

"You know one thing," you thought to him, "you remind me of a Warbler."

The bard chuckled at you with his sweet smile, "a warbler?"

"Yeah, those birds that sing a lot," you recalled.

As you reminisce about your childhood, your mind wanders back to when you were a young girl, growing up in a Witcher school. Life wasn't easy for you, especially since you were a frail child with a mother who struggled to provide for you. Days at school could be long and tiring, and you often find yourself exhausted by the end of them.

One particular memory that stands out to you is the sound of the Warblers that would perch on the window sill of your room. Their melodic songs would echo through the walls, piercing your ears and keeping you awake at night. You would try to drown out the noise by covering your ears with your pillow, but it was no use - the Warblers always seemed to find a way to sing their way into your thoughts. Despite the annoyance they caused, however, you couldn't help but feel a sense of comfort and familiarity in their presence. After all, they had been a constant presence in your life for as long as you could remember.

"They were annoying when I was young," You scoffed playfully, "I hated listening to them sing whenever I wanted some peace. Now that I'm older, I wish they still sang to me," you look at the burning bonfire as the warmth engulfed the front of your body. “I like your songs, jaskier, even if you played the same tune for a week. I won’t get tired of you.”

"Huh…" Jaskier gave your statement some thought, "I've never had anyone think of me that way." He sat over next to the fire, feeling a bit cold.

"Why? May I ask," You cocked a brow at him.

"I'm a bit of an exasperation and––" Before Jaskier could continue, he stopped himself. He could ruin his godly reputation in front of you, and he did not want that.

"A skirt-chaser?" You continued.

"Oh- No, no, not that," you can sense the embarrassment that overcame his confidence.

"right, alright," A mischievous chuckle escaped your lips as you heard the mention of the notorious bard. His reputation preceded him, and you couldn't help but be amused. Word on the street was he had a knack for breaking up marriages or being the third person for sleeping with married men's wives. You won't deny it. Jaskier was handsome and quite the romantic.

The atmosphere was serene as if the world had a standstill. Not a sound except for the gentle rustling of leaves as the wind passed through the trees. "Can you sing me a song, Jaskier?" You asked, "Please?"

As Jaskier continued his endless string of tales, you couldn't help but politely express your reluctance to hear more. In response, Jaskier flashed a sweet smile and said, "Yes, you may, Y/n."

One day, Jaskier won't be around you. One day, you won't ever see him again, and it will be just you and Melorax on the lonely road. It could happen tomorrow, or it could be years from now. You tried not to dwell on that possibility, but it was always there lingering at the edges of your consciousness. But that did not matter now. It was a love that grew deep inside you that you have never felt. It's a companionship that was a strange yet familiar feeling. One day, he will see you as a monster like everyone else did when they saw you. Despite this, You listened intently to his stories and musings, even when they seemed nonsensical or meandering. You laughed at his jokes and marveled at his wit. You knew these moments were precious, and you never took them for granted because you will never know when that moment will end.

A/n: hey guys :) I apologize if my interpretation of Jaskier and the Witcher universe had errors. I was busy with school to read the books and watch the show for extra context and accuracy and did this all by itself. Overall, im unite happy with how this turned out.