#British Raj AU

[balrogballs]

in the illustrious history of balrogballs making a joke on Tumblr and then writing a whole ass fic around it, from breakfast blowjob productions, comes a new instalment:

balrogballs joking about a Bollywood Silmarillion adaptation where the Fëanorians are South Asian coded and Elrond, due to his kidnap fam upbringing, has the FUNNIEST colonial hangover known to mankind…

… and then a month later working on a period-AU oneshot set 20 years after the fall of the British Raj, where Surrey-based Elrond returns to India for the first time since he and Elros - the lost children of two British colonial officers - had been taken away from the notorious freedom fighters who found them and raised them.

enjoy an excerpt!

When he and Elros were eight years old, Maglor Fëanorian had told him about the walls of the West. Well, he didn't tell him but Elros had read it in a diary Maedhros kept during his days as a student in London, because Elros was the kind of child who shamelessly used other people’s diaries as storybooks.

So that was where Elrond Peredhel read about the walls of the West. How the bitter water from their seas runs through all the rivers on earth, how high they can rise to keep out outsiders, how they flow from the heart of London and twirl out across the world like barbed wire, propelled by the sea. The walls of Maglor’s house in Kozhikode, Elrond used to think, must have been too high on the cliffside for the sea to reach. As pockmarked as they were, they had always welcomed him and Elros with open arms and a kiss.

On most weeks, when Maedhros got home from another Congress meeting or some revolutionary circle or the other (it goes without saying that none of Maedhros’ comrades knew that he and his brother had taken in not only two grey-eyed British children, but the grey-eyed British children of the sisterfucking chutiya Viceroy’s sisterfucking chutiya secretary), he would always bring them a bag of hot, roasted peanuts.

A bag each! A bag each, because Maedhros just knew things like that, just knew that twins treasured every little thing they didn’t have to share. Even nothing-things like bags of peanuts. On those nights, when Maedhros put down a cushion and sat against the wall, spine to stone, Elrond would lean into his carefully-guarded, coiled-tight body and fall asleep to songs about the walls of the west. They had been very young. They had been young enough to call Maedhros ‘Baba’ and Maglor ‘Abbajaan’, and persist until it meant something.

The house was near the sea. The house that once would have been breathed in, had the sea yawned: these days, it is enveloped by the petrol-diesel-tar of the apathetic Sand Banks Road. Elrond can, had he wanted to, walk to six phone shops, even though he only has one phone. He tries to be content with the knowledge that Kunjiraman Vakeel Palam still exists: that he has to cross it every day to get to his house. The house by the sea. The one in which he and Elros and Maedhros and Maglor had lived and loved with no expectation of being loved back. Two violent freedom-fighters, and the left-behind spawn of the sisterfucking chutiya Viceroy’s sisterfucking chutiya secretary. The setup to a bad joke, the bones of a little life, wrapped in the cloying, earthy red around the house. At some point, a slow, jagged cat had wandered in and never left. He was the thinnest, reddest cat the fourteen-year-old Elrond had ever seen, half an ear missing, and mean for the sake of being mean.

He and Elros had taken half a year to name it. Were you supposed to give an Indian cat an Indian name? It was Maglor who put his foot down in the end. He didn't think he could live with a cat called Ramachandran. That’s simply “too Orientalist, Elrond, even for you. Someone would probably beat you up in school if you and your grey eyes went around telling people you owned a cat named Ramachandran, and I am telling you now I will not just turn a blind eye to it, I will be personally sending sweets to the child’s house”.

So they named it Rusty, and Rusty it was to everyone except Maedhros, who called it nothing, because “a cat that runs away from small rats does not deserve a name.”

[cyndaquillt]

Image : A landscape painting of the Jungle Terai by William Hodges titled 'A View in the Jungle Terry', 1782 (Source)

Bhool Bhulaiya 3 is an interesting piece of media in the sense that it has many of my identities and interests but feels a little off in terms of repping them. In the spirit of fix-it-fics, I have an expansive BB3 alternate timeline AU where I can project my needs for historical and cultural accuracy of this story. Read my brief retelling of the events leading up to Manjulika's haunting in BB3 on the above link or under the cut! TW/CW : implied gender dysphoria, transphobia, major character death

This work uses he/him pronouns for Debu before she completely figures out her gender identity. I simply mean to use this as a writing tool and the intention isn't to misgender Debu. He/him pronouns for Debu may also pop up in cases where a character denies her gender identity in their pov.

The estate at Raktghat is haunted by Manjulika and a Raj Purohit of the old rajjo is the only one with the knowledge of how the haunting came to be. But does the oral tradition of the Raj Purohit's family remember who Manjulika really is? Does it know of the sin of its own people? Does it remember what Raktghat really was like before the rakt seeped into its grounds? Do the tales still speak of the time when Raktghat was Joybhum?

The year is 1805. A collection of several estates and fiefdoms in the Jungle Terai region go on to become the Jungle Mahals district under the British Raj. British presence in the area is nothing new but the renaming of the district brings more of their control into it rather than being a mere name change. And yet, some fiefdoms persist. Like the fiefdom of Joybhum, near modern day Purulia in West Bengal. The feudal lord of the fiefdom even manages to keep his title of a 'Rajah', fully acknowledged as a ruler of Joybhum by the British. And yet, he knows it's not all over yet. The white men loom like vultures on the horizon, scavengers ready to pick him apart as soon as his foot slips and they deem him dead. Sometime after the Jungle Mahal is created, a son is born to the Raja of Joybhum. A male heir! Sure, he has daughters already, both capable leaders. But the white men will find a weak link and take over if there's no male heir. His daughters may be of the 'right' lineage and skilled in ruling but he knows they wouldn't be enough to deal with the lurking scavengers. He is their protector, he is Joybhum's protector. And Joybhum will not be compromised. If the Raja has to make the servant's son its ruler to protect it, then so be it. He names his son Debendranath. Lord of the Debendra, King of the King of Gods. His Crown Prince. His Debu.

Debu is thrust into the etiquettes and responsibilities expected of a prince from an early age. The Raja sees Debu's birth as a good omen for the kingdom, harking in several blissful years of peace and prosperity. The Raja's control of Joybhum is firm and his wealth grows. He hosts lavish events, patronizing troupes from nearby regions as well as from poschim or the west, such as a Kathak troupe from Awadh and Odissi troupes from kingdoms just south of Joybhum. His daughters take a keen interest in these two art forms and he makes arrangements for exceptional gurus of the two disciplines to stay in Joybhum and teach his daughters. He doesn't mind that the nobility doesn't learn the dances of the tawaifs and devdasis. He is his daughter's provider, their Baba, and he will give them whatever they ask for. Manjulika learns Odissi and Anjulika learns Kathak and he is very proud of their talents.

However, there is another little child quietly looking from the sidelines and being mesmerized by the beauty of the dances, especially Kathak. Debu goes with Anju didi to her classes, never misses a single one! And dances along on the sidelines. Everyone in the class finds it cute! Even compliments Debu! He is encouraged to dance more and he likes when he's told he's doing it well! These are some of the best days of Debu's childhood. Until one day, when he is about 10 years old, the Raja decides to pay a visit to Anju's Kathak class. The Raja spots Debu and is furious. It is not befitting of a prince, the future crown prince, to dance away like that. What will people say? The sahebs will swoop in, just like they've done to several kingdoms at this point that haven't produced suitable 'heirs'. The white men are already on the Raja's neck for 'lavish spending of public money on the arts' and if they find out the crown prince — 'But Baba! Didi does it so why can't I!', wails the 10 year old and immediately gets a slap on the cheek. 'Tui ki tor Didi? Are you your sisters? Tui Raja hobi. Rajader moto thak. You will become a king. Behave like a king.' Well. Debu wishes he was his didi. Debu wishes he was never the son his baba pinned his hopes on and instead the daughter who learned whatever she wanted. A small fire of envy is born. Debu didn't choose this and he doesn't want to live the life of a prince. He would rather be someone else entirely.

And yet, he is shoved into a prince's life with full force. Debu is banned from visiting the classes and is instead being taught what princes are expected to know - horseriding, swordplay, politics. Debu's distaste towards his own princehood and even manhood intensifies. Why was he born a man? He wishes he were just born a woman. He would rather hold a jhumka in his hand than a sword. He would rather wear his poschimi angrakha and panjabi for twirling while dancing instead of when meeting foreign ambassadors on the arduous diplomacy trips his father takes him on.

Around the time Debu is 16, he starts to run away at night. People think he's going to brothels or has a fling, as rumours go about young princes. Little do they know that he goes to see Chhau performances with the locals of Joybhum, disguised as a teenage girl. He is enchanted by the dance itself and even more so by the men playing the roles of women in the dance-drama. He wants to be them. He wants to be the woman on the stage. She wants to be on stage. She realizes how she really sees herself. She is starting to figure out who she really wants to be. And it's not the crown prince of Joybhum.

The rumours of the young crown prince going to brothels spreads far and wide and reaches the Raja's ears. The Raja is infuriated. He is more of a Raja than a Baba these days anyway and his fury at the crown prince indulging in lecherous deeds knows no bounds. The Raj Purohit, the Raja's trusted advisor, convinces him to channel his anger constructively, and arrange Debu's marriage. Boys will be boys, and the only way to calm the boy down is giving him the role of a husband and a man. The royal Rajput family of Singhbhum has sent a marriage proposal for one of the princesses from their branch family. A marriage alliance would not only benefit the kingdom, but would also set Debu on the right track. And so Debu, at the age of 18, is married off to a princess she barely knows and doesn't love.

She continues to leave at night, and is quickly found out by her wife. They start to chat. Honestly and frankly. And Debu has her first friend she can be open with. Her wife even lets her try out her ornaments! She watches her dance, she listens to Debu talk about dance styles and techniques and even lets Debu teach her a few steps!

Debu does stop leaving the palace and the rumours die down, making people think that the marriage really did contain the young prince after all. But the Raja wants an heir. The Raja declares Debu as the official crown prince of the fiefdom in court to pressure Debu and her wife into their roles as the future monarchs. So that they start thinking of an heir of their own. And then the storm really arrives. Debu's wife has to go to her baaperbari in Singhbhum shortly after. There was a forest fire and one of her close relatives was caught up in it. Meanwhile in Joybhum, Anjulika and Manjulika, upset at Debu's being officially given the title of the crown prince, plot to kill her. This is when they find out that Debu still loves Kathak. Debu still dances even! A part of their hearts is elated! Their little baby br— no, sister— is still the same cute child who would dance in the corner during Anju's classes! But they are their father's daughters and they are princesses. They know why the Raja pins his hopes on Debu and they know his fear of Joybhum being annexed. They know they can't be the perfect male heir that the sahebs have fed into the Raja's mind as the ideal for a ruler. But they are fighters. Debu, however? She is no fighter, never was. Maybe, just maybe, they can get their father to see who she really is. What's the worst that could happen? At most Debu would be exiled and once the sisters work their way up to the throne, they'll bring Debu back! So they plan a show for their Baba. Debu is delighted when the princesses ask her to perform for them. Alas, she doesn't know that she's going to have an audience of more than just the two of them.

Her sisters betray her. The Raja walks in, just like he had when Debu was 10 and dancing in the corner. He looks furious, just like he did back then. And there's something else, something more. A look of resignation? Disappointment? ...surrender?

There was someone else who had ratted Debu out to the Raja before the sisters.

The Raj Purohit has had Debu figured out for quite some time now. He knew the rumours of the crown prince going to brothels was false. He really tried to fix the situation by proposing the marriage and hoping it would really dissuade Debu and save the kingdom. And yet, Debu kept at it. Somehow things got worse, what with that Singhbum girl enabling this behaviour further. So he bribed some village folk to stage a fire near her ancestral property. A member of the royalty getting caught in it wasn't in the plan, but it did make sure she's away for at least 13 days. In the meantime, the Raj Purohit goes to the British and outs Debu. No one had been more successful in coercing the Raja to tighten Debu in his responsibilities than those sahebs after all. Things were all going to plan. He wasn't there when the dialogue between the Raja and the British happened and doesn't know that instead of getting the Raja to put pressure on Debu, they got him to sign off Joybhum's sovereignty to them. It was either that and keeping the estate, or foregoing everything including the property. And the Raja chose property. He can no longer be the protector of Joybhum or his children. But at least he can save his estate.

There are not going to be any real Rajas in Joybhum anymore. A branch family would likely inherit the property and the British would take over its governance. All titles would be fake, without meaning. Hollow and empty. And it was Debu who ruined it.

Debu is not needed anymore.

Debu can just burn to ashes. Anju and Manju can just go away.

And finally, when everyone is gone, and when Joybhum burns and bleeds, the Raja can take his last breath.

Joybhum was one of the earliest fiefdoms in the Jungle Mahal district to completely fall apart. The crown prince’s death triggered a chain reaction and neighbouring estates all started falling apart like dominos. Joybhum vanished. The Jungle Mahals vanished.

The locals claim they saw blood coming out of the palace's doors and flowing out into the nearby Kangsabati river for years after the fall of the fiefdom. The palace was shedding tears of blood. Joybhum was doomed for good and Raktghat was born. 

[enigma-the-mysterious]

AU where Ram is not a knobhead and comes clean to Bheem regarding his mission and they work together to both free Malli and steal the weapons.

"Lmao, look at Robert. He's about to do something stupid."

I want to see them plotting scheming on how to take down the British Raj and avoiding the interval fight shitshow

[firstprince-ao3feed]

The Fox's Bargain

The Fox's Bargain https://ift.tt/ydCUQX3 by OrchidScript London, 1927 Henry Fox has spent years hiding in plain sight. Living under a pseudonym — Dr. Edward A. Windsor — he’s become the toast of London’s archeological set; making history-breaking discoveries, publishing bestselling accounts of his travels, and securing a coveted teaching position at Oxford University. When the ambitious Dr. Claremont-Diaz arrives from New York University as a guest lecturer, Henry finds himself immediately drawn to the man, his research, and his knowledge. On a dig in Mexico and a race to disprove a newly discovered artifact, Henry realizes it’ll take more than giving up his real name to earn Alex’s trust — and love. It just might take giving up his whole career. Fully written. Updating Saturdays. Words: 2889, Chapters: 1/17, Language: English Series: Part 6 of History, Huh? Fandoms: Red White & Royal Blue - Casey McQuiston Rating: Explicit Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Categories: Gen, M/M Characters: Alex Claremont-Diaz, Henry Fox-Mountchristen-Windsor, Percy "Pez" Okonjo, Shaan Srivastava, Zahra Bankston, Rafael Luna, Jeffrey Richards, Beatrice Fox-Mountchristen-Windsor, Philip Fox-Mountchristen-Windsor, June Claremont-Diaz, Nora Holleran Relationships: Alex Claremont-Diaz/Henry Fox-Mountchristen-Windsor, Zahra Bankston/Shaan Srivastava Additional Tags: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - 1920s, alternate universe - archeologists, 1920s Archeology AU, First Meetings, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, more like: Enemies to Colleagues to Lovers, Academia, Historical Accuracy, Pseudonyms, false identities, References to the British Raj, Falling In Love, Eventual Smut, Eventual Romance, Angst with a Happy Ending, Slow Burn via AO3 works tagged 'Alex Claremont-Diaz/Henry Fox-Mountchristen-Windsor' https://ift.tt/yNjI6aw August 31, 2023 at 06:53AM

[missenvyadams]

𝙰 𝙻𝚎𝚊𝚐𝚞𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝙴𝚡𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚘𝚛𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚊𝚛𝚢 𝙶𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚕𝚎𝚖𝚎𝚗 𝙰𝚄

__**INFO**__

- 3/3/3 18+ Mature Rating. **Jcink Premium.**

- AU Victorian Era setting, with a lively Early 20th Century world.

- Soft Activity Check system, and adaptable writing.

- Blending early versions of Espionage, superhero types, with the themes of Lovecraft, H.G Wells, and other paranormal/supernatural spots.

- World full of OCs and characters from a wide range of sources, most importantly, 19th/early 20th century literature.

- Extensive lore, and a world built, full of OCs and unique takes.

- Extraordinary Times have 5 chapters worth of content already posted.

- Keeping writers and creators on their toes with our Public Domain/Copyright Guidelines, in spirit of the original graphic novels by Alan Moore & Kevin O'Neill.

- **No knowledge of the graphic novel source is needed, helped by our extensive timeline.**

- Well-built site and server, with a lot of content for such small user-base.

__**WHAT IS?**__

Set during the turn of the 20th Century, the year 1900, Extraordinary Times is within a backdrop of geopolitical chess and espionage.

Britain has become more tied with a facist government handling more control since the bombing of Cornwall dispelled the invading Martians, which worked like a charm, destroying the North Devon area, and killing thousand, including Alann Quartermain, Hawley Griffin & Dr. Henry Jekyll of the League.

Britain now faces a threat of which it's not sure of, a global threat called Cadaver which has infested British Intelligence and Government.

The underbelly of London is rife with gangs, and thieves, only protected by some night-time vigilantes. The rest of the world tells similar tales.

Everyone is harking for the same goal, some peace and quiet, The League of Extraordinary Gentlemen is all but dead but needed more than ever.

It may not be the League's story that is told around the campfire at the end of the world, could it be yours?

> Based upon the works of Mr. Alan Moore & Mr. Kevin O'Neill, Extraordinary Times is an AU roleplaying game set in the extensive world of **The League of Extraordinary Gentlemen**, from the caustic streets of Victorian London, the changing America, to the tumultuous space of India & the British Raj, and all in-between.

**Chapter Five is live, and we're welcoming new players for the first time!**

Discord: https://discord.gg/RzB2JHayE3

Site: https://extraordinarytimes.jcink.net/index.php

[lostinfic]

Jean-François and Betty’s wedding in Sharad

Because she deserves a prince and a fairytale ending.

[anansianansi]

Coterie

As a gift for her eighteenth year, Lady Elizabeth Clarke Griffin has but one request: to visit her father in India, where he has served his Queen and country under the British Raj for most of his life. His stories of Hindustan have coloured her imagination for much of her life, and this is her chance to experience the country that has held sway on her for years. Little does she know that her voyage will leave her changed forever, not in the least because of her meeting with a certain Princess Alexandra, heiress apparent to the princely state of Trikpur, a proudly fierce kingdom at odds with its history, and seeking to keep its independence from the British Raj.

------

Chapter 1: The Voyage

The gentle back and forth of the ship as it rolled its way steadily onward to its destination across the ocean was the same, as it had been for the last six months. On board the HMS Viceroy, its mixed cargo of cloth, iron machinery and people were arranged in the famed hierarchy that gave Britain its clout across the world; crates and inanimates at the very bottom, with its sleeping passengers organized across the various decks by class. The lower two were already bustling, busying themselves with the daily rigmarole of the breakfast service. In the kitchens, cooks and busboys scurried back and forth as eggs were boiled, poached and tossed in just the perfectly preferred ways, fruit and bread sliced, kippers and sardines fried, all ready in time for the first course, which was to be underway shortly after daybreak. In the cabins on the lowest deck, Niylah tucked her hair into her bonnet, pinning it firmly in place. Smoothing out the front of her white cotton apron, she stifled a yawn as she made her way to the uppermost deck.

Unlike the rest of the ship, it was quiet here, with the sounds of the ship travelling through the waves becoming mere swishes, as though the act of cutting through hundreds of tons of water was but a minor inconvenience. She envied these rooms their solitude, but not the boredom that she imagined came with it. What her board lacked in comfort, it certainly made up for in conviviality. Only last night had she danced for hours with the dashing deckhand from Edinburgh, with both of them knowing this was a hello and a goodbye at once; her fate was sealed with what was to come, for the foreseeable future at the very least. Perhaps if it was meant to be, it would be; there was no other way to consider it.

Stopping by the last cabin towards the right, she rapped her knuckles on the door gently, once, twice, three times, as was her custom. “Lady Griffin?” Expecting no answer as always, she knocked once more, before pushing down the iron handle as she had done every day for the last four months. Instead, the door was wrenched and flung open from the inside, and she found herself face to fresh face with the nearly fully dressed and wild-eyed Lady Elizabeth Clarke Griffin. “Niylah! Good morning, your timing is enviable. Enter, please.”

Keep reading here.

[hackedbyawriter]

fic writer interview

Tagged by: @yass-rani Name: Sargun/HackedByAWriter

fandoms: SMZS, Lord of the Rings, The Silmarillion. Good Omens, Marvel, Padmaavat, Bajirao Mastani, Shadow and Bone + Six of Crows, Star Wars, Harry Potter (Marauders Era), Merlin, The Locked Tomb Trilogy, Night at the Museum, Narnia, Bollywood, Deltora Quest and more but I can't remember them rn. two-shot: these are technically one shots but who gives they are in two parts :) 'blues and purple pink skies' , 'life was a willow (and it bent right to your wind)' and 'starry eyes sparking up my darkest nights' most popular multi chapter fic: without a shadow of a doubt its 'The Glass Mosaic' like it has fan art, a fan page, fanfics, a place in the urban dictionary, it even has an article that mentions it and just has received more love than it deserves to be quite frank. there is also ain't it like thunder a post TROS finnpoe fic that I absolutely adore writing rn so I decided to mention it. Actual worst part of writing: Slogging through the less interesting parts of a story. and pacing. pacing fucking pacing please kill me. Also writing smut it’s very frustrating in the “fuck me how the hell am I supposed to write this without sounding stupid” How you choose your titles: I usually have a title around the same time I start the story if I dont have a title I use random title generators. sometimes I ask my friends. My pirate story is still literally still titled 'Pirate Story' tho so idk if it's a great method. do you outline: I outline as I go. like if im writing a chapter i'll write down the scenes i want in bullet points and expand on those. I sometimes outline 5 chapters at a time but I hardly ever outline a whole story. ideas you probably won't get around to, but wouldn't it be nice: for sure it would be my SMZS demon x demon hunter AU set in British Raj India. In which Aman is a demon hunter and Kartik is a demon. Aman is about to retire but wants to catch one last very old very powerful demon who has eluded him for many years and he's been researching for ages (this demon happens to be Kartik). Kartik joins him in his search for the shits a giggles but soon the two of them fall in love. Betrayals and Burdens and Death and Dark Magic. It sounds so fun to write. But I think I'll only write it if someone wants to write it with me bc Tgmm had taken over my life rn. callouts @ me: Lord of the Rings, Narnia and Star Wars, you are my home fandoms I need to write more for them. best writing traits: characterisation, dialogue and character inner monologues. I'm also good at poetry and poetic language. Not to be arrogant I don't think there's much that I'm bad at I just need to hone in on the skills I already have. spicy tangential option: I want to write more smut. Not because I like writing it but because sometimes a story might require it (ie slow burns) and I need to to be like “yeah okay I got this” instead of chickening out as I usually do. I’ve only ever written it once (and I traumatised everyone with curtains) but I want to get more comfortable writing it and I want to be able to write it for various couples (doing so respectfully of course and I would never write explicit explicit bc no). was that spicy enough? Tagging: @legendarilymessedup @your-villainous-neighbour @dhyanshiva @aziraphales-dirty-laundry @satrangee-ray @onmywayto-pigfarts @thisissab @fandom-food-fire

[jeanvanjer]

In another new article in EW, Charithra refers to Edwina and Kate as “immigrants.” I mean, we knew but the confirmation…why 🥴🥴 CVD doesn’t have the capacity to do this right and thoughtfully.

Did she? Hmmm gonna go check that out.

Technically they are immigrants. And in another setting it wouldn’t be such a big deal. Imagine a modern AU of Bridgerton. In fact it would’ve been a great thing (if done right). But with the timeline it’s being set in . . . 😬

There’s still so much we don’t know and the reiterating of the fact that the Sharma women are “outsiders” is makin me neeeeervouuuus. S1 wasn’t promoted on the idea that love basically solved racism. So yeah the fact that India is a huge part of S2 marketing has me going into the season with low hopes as to how they will handle it. There is one South Asian writer but that’s not enough. India is so fuckin huge. You have hundreds of cultures, religions, and languages. The history is soooo intricate and there’s already more than enough to unpack when it comes to India and the British Raj. Words and topics like Bombay and merchant husband, rule free society imply far more bad than good here.

I’m hoping this India stuff is ridiculous and cringe at best. But the changes they’ve made to the Sharma background isn’t just casual. So while I’m a bit hopeful I’m very nervous.

The collective people of Somerset should rally against CVD and ask him “Bro, what’s wrong with Somerset?”

[theburialofstrawberries]

Do you have any fic recs... you seem like a good connoisseur of like, that particular brand of thought-provoking gorgeous writing style holy crap I can’t believe someone wrote this intricate, delicate piece of fiction for free stuff. I don’t even care if it’s like about Pixar Cars I trust your taste fully on this. Asking for a friend.

Boy do I totally have exactly what you asked for. Below are recs largely from fandoms where I have had either zero or minimal engagement with the source material but whose authors I’d trust with my life. In no particular order: 

1. In the spirit of your Pixar Cars joke, this Transformers fic by the peerless astolat that will leave you stunned the robot cars didn’t bone when they are so clearly in love. If you like that one you should read the Victory Condition, same fandom and author; someone correctly commented that its the next Great American Novel and only we on this site will ever know

2. One of my absolute favourite written works ever which I will never stop recommending is The Book of Secrets by Are; Downton Abbey, prickly gay evil butler with a heart of gold, vain handsome footman undergoing a deep crisis of identity. Are introduces psychological complexity and richness to the fairly bland Jimmy character, and as tumblr user maiden once remarked, making good fanfiction for bad tv shows IS the noblest of women’s works, this generation’s Bayeux tapestry. If you like that you should definitely read Hauntsverse (the Enchanted Life of Thomas Barrow has the kind of pacing & action & thematically + narratively satisfying conclusion in its last third that Christopher Nolan dreams of)

3. Also still really like this Rave footballer RPF fic of Christiano Ronaldo and Kaka where Ronaldo is a half-demon and Kaka is a priest. Love a good crisis of faith story. I do not follow football and have no dog in the RPF discourse war but Rave is just a lush brilliant humorous writer 

4. User Fahye literally held the real estate deeds to my ass for the longest time, they’re prolific and have done some excellent work in the Untamed and Yuri on Ice fandoms in particular, but two niche works that deserve to be mentioned: Single Use Weapon, a fealty fic set in a tiny modern day kingdom. Monarch is in love with the childhood friend turned mercenary who must protect his king. And then this enjolras / grantaire fic that I’ve probably outgrown since I don’t have the tolerance for prolonged angst anymore, but when I did, this was the one I kept returning to   

5. Syllic sent me down an entire Merlin/Arthur phase with Three Tasks (if you like this you should check out the rest of their works + astolat’s entire Merlin body of work, Crown of the Summer Court is widely regarded as one of the best fanworks ever ever ever)

6. Some anon very long ago recommended An Ever Fixed Mark, which is a soulmates AU of Pride and Prejudice. The author AMarguerite does some beautiful well-researched world-building here and completely transports you to the regency era, I learned all about the Ton. But importantly this series is juicy and funny and full of heart. It’s also choose your own adventure -- what if Lizzie had ended up with Colonel Fitzwilliam? Or the literal actual Duke of Wellington? Staunch supporters of Mr. Darcy may rest easy seeing as there is a 100K+ story dedicated to Darcy/Lizzie but there’s also two separate what-ifs; the one where Lizzie shacks up with the Duke of Wellington is, for my money, the best 

7. Passion & Profession starring Marcus Aquila of The Eagle (2011) and YES Jamie Bell EXCEPT as St John Rivers from Jane Eyre. Follows St John’s adventures after he sets for Calcutta -- and lives, because he has his big gay awakening with a buff handsome crippled soldier. Beautiful story, St John is a drama queen, really liked the portrayal of British Raj era West Bengal here. As I said, I love a good crisis of faith fic, and the conversation St John has with a cheerful gay reverend near the climax of the fic is one of the favourite back and forths on religion and gay love ever 

8. This fix-it Snowpiercer fic where Yona and Timmy survive and find an underground society....sci-fi levels of intricate and bold world-building  

9. Another fix-it because I’ve recently been obsessed with Avatar where Neytiri is the one chosen by the elder tree to become Toruk Makto and save her people; same author has written a 34K slow burn between Trudy and Grace that I’m dying to read 

10. Some original works that have recently been on my mind: 

For King & Country, I’m following Part 2 of this masterful series with bated breath; insecure mage hates his handsomer more charismatic more talented rival, unaware said rival has been in love with him for aaages. 

This weird short lovely thing where a thief rides across a desert nearly dies and is saved by the mute solar deity whose temple he is about to rob. Love an unexpected story that makes me re-read looking for clues and subtext and details I may have missed 

This horror fic about how a group of people on an online forum for analyzing a Tolkein-like children’s series meet up IRL to discuss the author’s alleged descent into madness and unlock the mystery behind his last seemingly nonsensical book. As you say I cannot believe people write this stuff for free

Hollycomb is a legend and my heart pangs with every re-read of this paranormal coming of age fic....wistful & lovely 

And my bookmarks for further reference. If you end up reading anything from this list let me know!!!!!

[pigeontheoneandonly]

This is a little fanfic I did of @citadelsushi’s amazing long fic, Give to Pressure. It’s a fantastic enemies-to-lovers AU set in the Old West, starring her Avory Shepard and Kaidan Alenko.  I cannot say enough good things about this fic.  Its characterization, writing, and atmosphere are absolutely on point.  And it even updates reliably!  It’s a joy to read and you should all stop whatever you’re doing and go read it right now.

All those feels spilled over and I ended up writing a short fic about Nathaly set in this universe.  Since no planet is big enough for two Shepards, I’ve altered her story a bit to accommodate.

* * *

Nathaly Cabrera stood at her bar, tallying up the books from last night.  The sun had just crested the hills and shed long beams of pink light over the worn planks.  Though well-accustomed to rising at first light, Sundays never got too easy, as folks piled into town for morning services and seemed keen to get all their sinning done the evening before.  She wasn’t dressed yet herself; boots and pants and an untucked shirt, just enough to see to the yard, her uncombed hair tumbled over her shoulders in a red tangle.

Least she had the mind to knock the muck from her boots.  Nathaly never cared much for scrubbing floors, and even less for scrubbing chicken shit.

The door swung open and brought with it a dry wind and the promise of another achingly hot day. Nehal stepped inside, tugging off her gloves, a picture in rose silk.  She took in Nathaly with a sigh.  “You get a move on.  We’ll be late.”

“Perish the thought.”  Neither had enough Christian in her for even the devil to recognize, but Nehal would rise from her death bed before she’d miss a lick of gossip.  In a town as small as this, church was the social highlight of the week.  

She was too familiar with her grumpiness to spare much concern.  “I heard the train come in yesterday. So I walked down to Miller’s to see about the mail.”

Nathaly took the envelope she offered, and made a face.  “Mi madre.”

“ Sí.” She hiked her bustle and perched on a stool, folding her arms over the bar top.  Relishing her irritation.  “And how is dear Miss Hannah doing?”

The paper was creased and torn, some indication of the distance it had traveled, but she’d learned better than to guess.  She slit it open and read the first few lines.  “Well, she was in Peking as of two months back.”

“Peking? Why?”  That was far abroad even by Hannah’s tumbleweed standards. 

“Says here she joined a merchant caravan out of Persia, heading east.”  Her frown deepened.  Her mother’s wandering feet took her all over the world as a child, putting down roots just to have them ripped back out of the ground, tender and smarting.  Age hadn’t slowed her a mite.

Nehal reached over and rested her hand on her forearm.  Comforting. “Sulk if it pleases you, but you’ve got more than a touch of her blood, and you know it.”

Nathaly muttered. Nehal’s smiled widened, teasing.  “Following that same wind blew you all the way to East India.”

A pressing need to get out of town had blown her to India, fleeing a city a long ways from here, where the fastest way out was to sign on with a ship’s crew.  But Nehal was right.  She let Hannah dig too far under her skin.  Instead, she picked up her hand and planted a kiss in the palm. “Your siren song spread across the seas.”

“Such a charming liar.”  Her laugh faded.  “But that’s not all that came in on the train.”

After seven years and two continents, Nehal was an open book.  She knew her thoughts by her look like she knew her whiskeys by their scent. “Not more of those yellow-sashed bastards.”

At her nod, Nathaly cursed, and reached behind the bar.  Her eyebrows rose, mildly.  “Don’t tell me you mean to leave with liquor on your breath.”

“Don’t tell me I’m not entitled, between my mother and this.”  She poured out a finger and took a sip.  “Damn it.  I have half a mind—”

“We should head south for a spell.”  Switching topics like the weather turning, inexorable and without a care for anyone’s agenda.  “It’s been nigh on two years since we visited your father.  Your nephew will be taller than me.”

Nathaly wasn’t having it.  “Leave papá out of this.”

“Sure as starlight, three weeks in you’ll hear talk of trouble somewhere, or go looking for it.”  She folded her hands.  Nathaly couldn’t escape her level stare.  “And you’ll come home with the sun, covered in bandito blood and lookin’ to cap off the evening with exertions of a different sort.”

“You’ve never not obliged,” she harrumphed.

Her mouth turned up in a wicked little smile.  “Never said I minded.”

It was an opening worth seizing.  “Do we have to go to church?”

“The point,” said Nehal, as Nathaly sighed and took another drink, “Is to syphon off a bit of this poison of yours, so you’ll come home with your head on straight and resist the impulse to start fights you can’t finish.”

“They already heard loud and clear their money ain’t welcome here.  You best believe I’d finish it.”

“No, Nathaly, you won’t.”

That gave her pause.  She’d rarely seen Nehal so sober.  “You’ve heard something.”

She shook her head.  “Not any one thing.  But I haven’t bought a shipment of silver anything in near half a year.  Silk and tea are getting scarce.”

Life under the Raj had been kinder to Nehal’s family than most, undoubtedly aided by her British grandfather.  Though most of the town saw her as a pretty ornament, something Nathaly brought back like a souvenir, the truth was her import business made better money than the bar. She’d eat her hat if any of the townsfolk other than the proprietors themselves could source the sudden availability of so many hard to come by goods.  

But they kept those opinions behind their teeth.  No other place in town had ousted Cerberus, so any woman who could enforce a ban from the only watering hole wasn’t someone to cross.  Besides, Nathaly had yet to meet a body who looked at two unmarried adults living together, sharing property, and couldn’t damn well figure it out. Nobody said anything about that, either. Though they did share the occasional quiet nod with Luther and Eddie when they rode in from their ranch every few months.

“Cerberus is controlling the supply lines, buying them directly or through coercion.  And a snapping up fair amount of the goods.”  Nehal looked up at her.  “A single person taking on an empire is a recipe for a funeral, and I’m not ready to bury you yet.”

She held her gaze a long minute, and then let out an explosive sigh.  “Fine.  Boils my blood.”

“Mine, too.”

Nathaly raised an eyebrow.  “You keeping safe around town?”

She moved her arm to reveal the small pearl-handled revolver at her waist. Prim as it was, Nathaly had seen her put a bullet through the eye of a man at thirty paces.  So as to not get blood on the satin, she’d explained, smoothing her dress.  “And I’ve told Lilybet to keep a weather eye and clear of the station.”

A fever took her parents, and while plenty of ranches would be happy to have another hand, she chose to make her own way.  Or as much of a way as she could, spending more nights than not sleeping in their parlor upstairs.  That was alright.  She’d had it hard enough without disallowing her some dignity in illusions.

Just then, the door creaked open again.  Nathaly’s hand closed on the shotgun under the bar before she was done looking up. Nobody came around for a drink on Sunday morning, and Lilybet would use the back door.  Trains brought in all manner of trash.

She aimed it forward and scrutinized the silhouette darkening her porch.  Then she exhaled, set it down, and picked up the glass. “Oh.  It’s you.”

[livestosave]

I gotta go to a Call of Cthulu game here real soon, but like.

Idk y’all throw asks at me for the god au, I have some thoughts on some of my other muses (and Qrow, who is the only one who’s got a post yet lol). Toss me asks while my WWI British Raj doctor maybe goes insane, maybe fights the forces of unknowable madness and wins the battle.

[news24fr]

Le propriétaire de British Gas, Centrica, a exprimé sa «profonde inquiétude» quant à la résilience financière de certains de ses concurrents sur le marché intérieur de l'énergie et a écrit à Citizens Advice pour demander de l'aide dans ses efforts pour protéger les consommateurs.L'avocat général du groupe Centrica, Raj Roy, a écrit au chef de l'organisme de bienfaisance, Dame Clare Moriarty, pour exprimer ses inquiétudes concernant la récente consultation du régulateur Ofgem sur la santé financière des fournisseurs d'énergie.Centrica souhaite que Citizens Advice ajoute son poids aux appels pour divulguer si le solde créditeur d'un client est entièrement protégé sur sa facture contre la faillite d'un fournisseur, et espère que les exigences de capital minimum prévues pourront être introduites plus rapidement.Ofgem tente d'empêcher une répétition des circonstances qui ont entraîné l'effondrement de près de 30 fournisseurs au cours des deux dernières années, au coût de 2,7 milliards de livres sterling pour les contribuables, plus des milliards supplémentaires pour couvrir le renflouement de la plus grande victime, Bulb.Pannes de courant : que font maintenant les patrons des entreprises énergétiques britanniques en faillite ?Lire la suiteCentrica a réagi avec colère en novembre lorsque Ofgem a cessé d'ordonner aux fournisseurs de protéger les soldes créditeurs des clients pour empêcher les fournisseurs d'utiliser l'argent des consommateurs à d'autres fins commerciales.Ofgem a précédemment déclaré que certaines entreprises énergétiques utilisent les soldes créditeurs des clients « comme une carte de crédit d'entreprise sans intérêt » et prévoit d'introduire des pouvoirs pour obliger les fournisseurs individuels à protéger les soldes créditeurs de leurs clients s'ils ne se conforment pas à ses règles de résilience financière.Dans la lettre, vue par le Guardian, Roy demande à Moriaty son avis sur une idée proposée par Centrica à Ofgem d'introduire une obligation pour tous les fournisseurs les obligeant à divulguer à leurs clients de manière bien visible dans toutes les communications si leurs soldes créditeurs seraient entièrement protégés si ils ont fait faillite."Bien que cette approche ne puisse pas remplacer efficacement la protection solide des soldes créditeurs des clients, elle rendrait, à tout le moins, les fournisseurs correctement responsables envers leurs clients de l'utilisation de leurs dépôts et fournirait à tous les clients un choix éclairé lors de la sélection de leurs fournisseur d'énergie », écrit-il.Le directeur général de Centrica, Chris O'Shea, a averti que davantage de fournisseurs d'énergie pourraient faire faillite cet hiver – avec des millions de livres d'argent des contribuables sur leurs bilans.Dans le cadre de la garantie des prix de l'énergie, introduite par Liz Truss, les fournisseurs d'énergie reçoivent de l'argent du gouvernement à l'avance pour couvrir la différence entre les coûts de gros de l'énergie et la garantie, risquant l'échec tant qu'ils détiennent des fonds publics.Centrica a repris des centaines de milliers de clients de fournisseurs qui se sont effondrés pendant la crise énergétique par le biais du processus de « fournisseur de dernier recours ».Inscrivez-vous pour Les affaires aujourd'huiNewsletter quotidienne gratuitePréparez-vous pour la journée de travail - nous vous indiquerons toutes les actualités et analyses commerciales dont vous avez besoin chaque matin

[sabraeal]

Get Up Eight: Chapter 1

An expansion of this Edo Period AU snippet, River of Silk

The incense is cloying this close; the scent of agarwood threatens to choke her, to leave her gasping for air if she doesn’t open the thick curtains drawn around the kamidama. A punishment at the hands of the gods themselves.

Instead, Shirayuki kneels.

The lamp burns steadily above, its light spilling off the shelf to fall, muted, to where she sits. The scent is less here, almost pleasant as long as she’s on her knees. As long as she’s showing deference.

“I’m sorry,” she murmurs, hands reaching up, up, until her fingers flip the latch over the sacred mirror -- the latch her grandfather had set so many years ago, when her mother was just a child, when he had built this with his own hands, to show that they were townspeople now, that they weren’t poor farmers --

There’s no shinkyō inside. It’s only books, only the last of her precious treasures, only her last memories of the time before.

Even now her fingers tremble as she holds them. The last of her dreams, held in rice paper and foreign parchment. A match, a careless hand, and she would lose even these.

She’s already lost too much. She can’t bear any more.

There’s just enough light to read by, for her to squint as she turns the delicate pages. Lines sprawl across the page, like nothing more than trees with endless branches. Shinkei, one book says, zenuw, say another. Nerve, she mouths to herself; the English word she knows from asking ship surgeons. She’ll know all of them, one day.

“Shirayuki!”

But not this one.

“Shirayuki!” Eno shouts again, knocking his cane against wood, gravel scuttling beneath his feet as he tries to peek in a window. “Shirayuki!”

“What is he thinking?” she huffs, cheeks flushing. She hurries to squirrel away her books, her notes. They can’t be left them out here for anyone to find. “Does he want someone to hear him?”

She scrambles to her feet, flipping the latch on the kamidama to hold her treasures safe. A breath of relief, and then she is rushing to the window, throwing open the shutters.

“Eno-san!” She doesn’t dare lift her voice above a loud whisper. “There’s no need to shout!”

“Shirayuki!” His mouth widens into an insensible smile. “Are you open?”

She glances toward the sky, the sun disappeared behind the roofs but light still golden. “No.”

“Ah, come on, then,” he cajoles. “It’s hardly much before dusk. Might as well open a bit early, if there’s asking!”

Her mouth purses into a thin line. She already works late into the night, ushering the drunks home only hours before dawn. Must she be expected to do more, to be available at all hours for a man’s pleasure? She did not risk so much to live a yujo’s hours anyway.

But she can’t shout her thoughts into the streets, not when there might be dōshin around, watching the old drunk make trouble. “All right,” she relents, “just this once.”

“Bless you!” he calls out, drawing more eyes. “Bless you, girl!”

She hurries out to the front, cursing each blessing Eno lays upon her doorstep. He’s a kind man, an old friend of Oji-san’s, a man she’s known her whole life -- but he’s the sort who must always make a scene, who must make a production of himself. It had been funny when she was a small girl, when he was only a whirling, mad uncle who would turn every moment into mummery.

Now he is a liability. A danger.

The door slides open easily in her hands, allowing him to stumble through.

“You are a golden child!” he tells her, nearly bowling her over. He already reeks of sake; some of the foreigners must have plied him with it, thinking it a fun game. She sighs, peeking out past him to see what attention he’s garnered.

The street is not busy, not before nightfall, but there’s always someone. With the foreigners in the port, there’s always some samurai prowling, looking for an excuse to make the tension worse.There will be violence here, one day, a massacre -- already, barely months ago, a Russian sailor was murdered three streets away, cut down by Japanese steel. Sonnō jōi is a wave, a tsunami, and one day it will break on Yokohama.

No one is particularly interested in this scene however; a drunk man in Yokohama can be seen on every corner when the ships are in. Still, eyes latch to them before skittering on, pretending they never looked.

Except one.

Gold eyes fix on her, steady, set in a face that might as well be a mask for how much it gives away. His hair is shorn, covering his skull like a bristled cap. It was cut all at once, she knows, maybe evened in some still water’s reflection; the look of a man without a master. She’s seen it enough these days; she hardly needs to take in the blade slung at his waist to know just what he is.

“Ronin,” Eno spits, catching the line of her gaze. “There’s too many of them here. Samurai too. Too many hot-blooded young men in one place spells trouble.”

Shirayuki doesn’t mean to stare, but there’s something about him that draws her eyes like a flame. There’s a scar just above his eye, a pale slash on his dark skin. Dangerous, that says, as does the gouge on his chest, bared through the loose wrap of his kimono. It’s a wound that might have -- should have, by her guess -- killed him. And he displays it proudly, like a trophy.

She doubts the man who gave him it is alive

“Maybe the shogun was right to place the sword ban,” she breathes, tearing her eyes away, She can still feel his on her. “Less steel will make it safer in the ports.”

The ronin’s gaze slips over her, and he passes, no more than another man with a blade.

“No,” Eno says, his speech clear. “It only makes men desperate. Like that one. A whole city full of desperate men.”

Shirayuki stares out on the street, empty now. Another street over, she wouldn’t even have to imagine it. She hears you can smell blood on it still, when the sun beats down.

“Forget about that!” Eno says suddenly, back with his old drunken swagger. “Come on now, let’s give a drink to Jiji.”

“To Jiji!” the men roar, cups lifted. One of them -- the youngest, Roku-san’s middle son -- traipses to the bar. He’s quiet out of his cups, a wary thing, but now he saunters up to the golden Buddha that sits, contentiously, at its center. A sliver of serenity in the chaos that is the sake house.

The wave might take this from her too. The sake house sees mainly regulars, men who knew her grandfather, grandmother, and even mother, but those who aren’t cast dark eyes at the statue, gazes slipping off it as if it is unclean. Sonnō jōi is to expel all foreigners, even, it seems, saints.

And Shirayuki will do anything to keep her head above water.

Her patron is all smiles now, tipping some of his sake into the offering cup clutched in golden hands. Shirayuki grimaces. It’s tradition she knows, meant to honor Ojii-san, but –

But it’s another task she’ll have to do, cleaning the Buddha, making sure there’s no sticky sake left in his cup. Another reminder that if she doesn’t mind herself, this could all come tumbling down.

“Another!” Kino-san -- the Elder -- laughs, waving his hand. “The night’s not yet done!

Shirayuki nods, hurrying into the pantry to grab another bottle; behind her she hears laughter, hears one of the men say, “Might as well go grab it yourself, Kino, save the girl the trip! It’ll be yours anyway.”

She nearly drops the flask. That’s not -- she’d refused him, his offer of protection. She knew what a precarious situation she was in, how all it would take was a curious dōshin to bring it all down around her, but --

But she wouldn’t take a man’s kindness, just because their grandmothers had been close, just because their mothers had called each other sisters before one had married beyond herself.

If she must come into marriage with a man, it would not be on her knees.

“Ah, no!” She turns in time to see Kino -- the Younger -- flush, to see him wave away the teasing. “It’s not like that. Shirayuki -- Jiji has this well in hand.”

“Ah, right.” The atmosphere of the bar becomes somber; more than a few eyes linger on the Buddha, on the cup he clasps.

“Come on, girl!” Eno-san calls out, jovial, trying to raise the mood. “Hurry –“

The bar goes silent when the doors burst open, revealing red coats. Foreigners. British.

“Well, well!” says their leader in English, a young man with a lop-sided smile and dark hair. “Don’t let us stop you.”

Raj has come to the sake house every night since his ship has been in port, and it feels as if it will never sail again.

“You’re not like the other girls here, Shirayuki,” he drawls, the consonants of his English crisp, the vowels sharp. She doesn’t know much about accents – hardly more than it takes to find out if a man is English or American – but his men don’t have the same. She’s sure he’d call it educated, but by the way his men send him long looks, she guesses it is more moneyed.

Perhaps that’s the same, in the West.

“How would you know?” she says, letting her voice sound teasing but not flirtatious. He already sees too much into the way she talks with him. Foreigners always do. “None of them speak English.”

“S-some of them do!” he blusters, pale skin flushing red. “Isn’t that right, Sakaki?”

“Of course, sir,” his manservant deadpans, eyes hooded with what she assumes is exhaustion. He’s older than Raj, but lower rank. She suspects this has more to do with birth rather than competence.

“I mean, of course, that you speak so well,” he continues, as if the man had never spoken. “You’re clearly a league above the other girls here, when it comes to intelligence. Why, with that red hair, you could almost pass for British.”

She hopes her grimace looks much more like a smile than it feels.

“Our ship leaves at the end of the week, you know,” he says, finger tracing the rim of his cup.

She hadn’t known, and it’s only through practice that she manages to keep the relief off her face. Soon he will be gone, and some other foreigner will come. Hopefully someone who prefers pining rather than flirting. Maybe someone French; she’s been meaning to pick up that language too.

Her thoughts distract her, she doesn’t realize his hand has moved until it’s on her wrist, thumb rubbing over her pulse. The blood in her veins turns to ice.

“It would be a shame to leave such a treasure as you here,” he says thoughtfully, tugging her closer to the bar. “We aren’t supposed to bring home souvenirs, but no one will say me nay…”

There is a part of her that is tempted. Here, there is no chance of her getting to study, but across the sea, she had heard there are women doctors. Not without pain, not without strife, but Shirayuki is used to both.

All it would cost her is herself.

“I cannot,” she breathes, “my grandfather needs me here.”

“I’ll pay him,” Raj promises easily, as if he’s never wondered where money comes from. “More than handsomely. A bride price any proper girl would be proud of.”

“Bride…price?” The term is strange, though she can guess what it is, from context. He couldn’t possibly –

“I couldn’t marry you, of course,” he laughs. “But you’d be the best kept mistress in England, aside from the King’s himself.”

Her mouth pulls flat. “No, thank you.”

She tugs at his arm, but he yanks her closer. “I’m offering you a life beyond dreaming, Shirayuki. A way out of this backwater country. Come with me, and I’ll show you how civilized people live.”

“I said no,” she gasps, pulling away, but he just holds tighter, his grip nearly painful.

“If you know what is good for you,” he growls, words clipped, “you’ll come with me.”

She grabs for something – anything – to make him release her, and –

And Grandfather Buddha slaps him across the temple, sending him tumbling to the floor, sake offerings staining his coat, his face.

The bar is quiet.

“I said,” she says, raising her voice, “no.”

The laughter crashes down with a roar, native and foreigner alike. On either side of the ocean, a spurned man is ridiculous

Raj scrambles to his feet, shaking himself. Sake sprays off his jacket, his trousers, and it only makes them laugh harder, grown men nearly in tears, leaning on each other to stay upright. Even Sakaki’s lips twitch at the corner, though he remains his master’s stoic shadow.

“You!” Raj growls, back hunched, teeth bared, more an animal than man. “You’ll regret this, you little whore.”

As the curtain swings shut behind him, only Sakaki following him into the night, Shirayuki certain he is right.

It’s the shouting that rouses her, that makes her lift her head, but –

But it’s the glass breaking that gets her out of bed.

It’s all gibberish for a few minutes as she rights herself, and but then she realizes it’s English, it’s Raj’s men outside shouting whore and worse. A rock crashes through her window, breaking the wood slats and --

And, oh, she can’t stay here. They’ll kill her.

Her hands shake as she throws clothes on; there’s not time to worry about propriety, not when any moment they could break through the door, the high windows – even the walls themselves, if they’re angry enough. She manages, just barely; her kimono lies askew over her juban, and her obi is just barely tied, but it’s enough, enough, and she moves to flee --

But then she smells the smoke. They’re carrying torches. They could set the sake house alight.

The latch of the kamidama is hot against her palms, and she flings it open, collecting the precious treasure within. The last of her hopes, her dreams. They’re the only thing worth anything in this whole place, save for –

The Buddha.

There’s no thought to leaving it, not now that she remembers. Not when it will be the first thing looters take, thinking the gold real, thinking there’s more than just wood beneath.

They would not like being right.

Shirayuki sprints into the bar, ducking under the windows so as to not be seen. Wood litters the floor under her feet, glass and stone as well. They’ll destroy this place to get at her, to make her pay, to force her onto that ship if she still lives. They’re practically pulling boards off the walls, but they haven’t broken through yet.

She cradles Buddha in her arms.

“I’m sorry,” she tells him. “I’ve ruined everything.”

There’s only one place to go.

Kino-san opens the door himself, eyes bleary. She thanks all the kami it’s him, not his parents.

“Shirayuki,” he says, eyes wide. “Are you all right?”

He would have made a good husband, had she been the sort of girl interested in being a wife.

“Kino-san,” she breathes, aware of the Buddha tucked against her chest. “I have a proposition.”

Her pockets are heavy as she steps out into the streets. The kimono she wears isn’t hers – that one is smoke-stained, ruined, but Kino-san’s mother was eager to dress her nicely, to put her in the sort of silks a wife of their house could enjoy. It’s beautiful, makes her look like she’s a woman to be reckoned with, instead of one without a home to go back to, with only what her life is worth in her pockets.

She can’t stay in Yokohama. Even if Raj’s ship leaves today, he’ll be back – a year, two? Enough time to build, only for him to raze it again.

She won’t live in fear. She won’t marry to be safe, to protect herself from a man who won’t let her say no.

Where will you go? Kino-san had asked her after she refused him again. It’s not accusatory, not angry, just -- concerned.

If only she knew how to make herself love someone. It would be so much easier.

None of these samurai will take her. They ask to see her father, to know where her gold comes from. That, or they eye the wisps of hair from under her wrap, or their gazes linger too long on the folds of her kimono.

There are men who are too expensive, and those who are too…expensive. She can pay in coin, and she knows some of them will not be happy for it.

By mid-day her feet hurt, her legs tight from mincing about in this fashionable kimono, and she is no closer to leaving than that morning. She’s desperate, and –

Desperate.

There’s at least one other man in this city as desperate as her.

“Samurai-dono.”

Gold eyes sweep down to meet hers. Up close, he’s smaller than she remembers, but still tall. At least average.

His kimono still gapes, still shows off his scar. He scratches it.

She does not wince. Hopefully.

“I have a proposition for you, samurai-dono.”

The key to negotiation is to pretend you hold the power. Oji-san always told her that.

“Six ryo if you bring me to Kyoto safely,” she says, her hands not even trembling around the cup. This past year has been an exercise in acting; this is just one more small performance. “Well, samurai-dono? Do you accept the terms?”

He’s a slovenly man, and when he slips his hand down from his face to hide in his kimono, she cannot hide her distaste. He’s not shaved recently; stubble prickling his face, though she must admit it lends him and air of…ruggedness she does not precisely mislike.

His mouth lifts at one corner, wry. He thinks he has humor, this ronin. She’s yet to see evidence of it. “Sorry to say, ojou-san,” he says in his smooth voice, “but I’ll pass on this one.”

Her gaze flicks up to his. This isn’t right. He’s desperate, more rib than meat. He can’t possibly pass up six ryo. It’s a fortune. “Is it the money?”

“No.” He grimaces as he takes in his sake. She’s surprised they’re selling it this early, but this ronin is not a man she’d care to cross in her own house. The man probably just wanted to keep him happy, less likely to make trouble. “It’s that you’re lying to me.”

Her heart pounds, her cheeks flush. “T-that’s not true. I’ll pay you half the ryo now, and half when we arrive in Kyoto.”

“Where did a girl like you even get so much money?” His eyes trail over her, no spark of interest in them. It’s a relief, as well as an insult. “Can’t be in the brothels. Are you running away from a marriage?”

Her mouth works, trying to find some reason to give him, but –

But she hears Raj, kicking up a fuss about the whore inside. “Samurai-dono,” she whimpers. “Please. Take me to Kyoto.”

His eyes narrow. “What’s in Kyoto, ojou-san?”

Nothing. He can’t know that. “My – my cousin.”

It’s a likely enough story, no reason for him to doubt it, but he remains incredulous. “I don’t think --”

“Let me in!” Raj demands, throwing – something. She flinches. He’ll find her, just sitting here like this. With another man. He won’t think it’s just business, not a man like him.

“Ojou-san --?”

“Please.” She wants to be big, be strong, but she’s so, so scared. He’ll kill her. He’ll strangle her right here while everyone watches. “Please take me from here.”

There’s a moment, an eternity, before the ronin speaks.

“Come here.” He grabs her wrist and yanks.

She’s not prepared; she stumbles into the table, and that in turn sends her sprawling into his lap, bottom pressed improperly to his front.

“I –“

“Play along!” he hisses, and then – then –

Then he puts his hand down her kimono.

Never has she been so – so manhandled, and he worsens it, jostles her to that her legs fall open, so that she tips against his shoulder, then – then –

He put his mouth to her neck.

“Sound like you’re having a good time,” he purrs against her, and she – she feels strange, feels hot –

“Oh-ho-ho!” she shrills, like the geisha she’s seen flirting with custom in the streets. She hopes.

It’s not. “Not that kind,” he snaps, and then –

Oh. Oh, oh – that is – that is his mouth, and it’s – his tongue is there too, and there’s sucking, and she cannot – it’s not –

“You, ronin!”

Oh, that’s – that’s right. She’s – she’s hiding from Raj. She’d forgot—

His hand shifts; no longer is his palm pressed awkwardly against her breast but cupping it, long fingers holding her with far more delicacy than she’d expect from a man like him. The way he positions her over his crotch, though – that she expects.

Raj stamps his foot, incensed. “Excuse me, I’m talking to you!”

The ronin looks up, gold eyes cold as coin, and stares blankly. Perhaps he doesn’t speak English; very few speak it as well as her.

“Have you seen…?” Raj lets out a huff, a growl, impatient as always. “HAVE YOU SEEN. RED HAIR. WOMAN.”

His only answer is to bring his mouth back to her neck, worrying at a spot that makes pins and needles break out over her arms, her legs.

“Why do I bother? Sakaki!”

Shirayuki dips her head as his companion appears, hoping her face has not flushed more than is seemly for some – some yujo, or whatever this ronin is trying to imply about her with his antics. Between the two of them, it would be Sakaki who would see through a ruse. She may only be red hair and green eyes to Raj, but not to Sakaki.

Raj thrusts out an impatient hand. “Ask this man about Shirayuki.”

“Excuse me, samurai-dono?” he intones softly, his Japanese as impeccable as always. “But have you seen a young woman with red hair?”

She is more disappointed than she ought to be when the ronin pulls away. “I haven’t seen any foreign women.”

“Not foreign. From Yokohama. Green eyes as well.”

The ronin’s face grows thoughtful – he may not have seen her hair, but her eyes, those he could not miss. She came to him because he was desperate, because she though a bag full of ryo would speak louder to him than pride, but –

But Raj could offer so much more, and for far less effort.

Shirayuki can’t – she won’t allow that.

How she makes the moan she’ll never know; it hurts her throat to be used in such a strange way, but both Englishmen stumble back, propriety offended, and the ronin –

It’s can’t be heat that she sees in his eyes. Not for that.

“No,” he says, so even, even as his thumb flicks out, rubbing right over her – her –

It makes her flush even to think about, squirming on his lap as a strange heat pools between her legs.

“Tell him to look in a brothel,” the ronin snaps. “I’m busy.”

Raj makes a scene, of course, and it’s nothing to sneak out the back, though she hesitates not to leave coin on the table.

“If it make you feel better, that man would have sold you out if he knew what was under your scarf,” the ronin tells her, cold, before moving past her.

It’s a fair point, even if it leaves a limp knot in her belly. She follows him.

It’s not a long walk to the back, to the alley behind the sake house, but her cheeks are still red with shame, her face flushed with heat, and --

And he had no right to use her like that. As if she were -- were -- some kind of yujo.

“We should go over my terms --”

Her hand snaps out before she can help herself. They both stand for a moment after she’s done, stunned.

He looks up, and her hand pulls back, ready to try again, and –

And he grabs it, giving her a long-suffering look.

“Don’t – don’t do that again!” she stammers out, cheeks flushed. “I’m not – I’m no yujo --”

“I know, ojou-san,” he says, both soothing and stern at the same time. “I was saving your life. Or maybe just your virtue.”

She doesn’t want to think about what would have happened had Raj found her, had this ronin decided to give her up. “I…know. Thank you. But…think of another way, next time. Samurai-dono.”

His laugh is harsh. “I’m no samurai, ojou-san.”

She’s not stupid. “I know. What else should I call you?”

He hesitates. “Obi.”

She nods. “Obi-dono.”

“No.” He shakes his head. “Just Obi.”

“All right,” she says. “just Obi. We should...finish our conversation. Not here.”

“Not here,” he agrees. “Do you have somewhere to go?”

“I...” It’s a terrible idea, but unless she wants to pay for an inn tonight, it’s what she has. “I do.”

[the-light-of-stars]

So I just watched “Once upon a time in the West” (well, I watched it partially, it’s a damned long movie) and you know what I had to think of?

Endless Summer Wild West AU !

I mean, think about it wouldn’t it be interesting?

Sean and Craig are the sons of local farmers and knew eachother since childhood , Sean taught Craig how to ride a horse, Craig taught Sean how to fix a barn. Sean wants more than a farmers life, though, and wants to become the next Sheriff. His mother owns their farm alone since everything that happened with his dad (what happened with him is all still the same), and has been asked to sell lately (more about that later), which she refuses to do even though they’re not exactly rich.

Quinn is the daughter of the town’s baker, an Irish immigrant, and since Rotterdam’s probably wasn’t well known back then she’d probably have tuberculosis instead :(

Raj works at the local pub, which is owned by his family and was funded by his grandma, he’s been dreaming of opening his own restaurant in the city, though.

Estela is a mysterious stranger who just came to town, but people say she’s a bounty hunter. And well, they’re correct.

Yvonne and Malatesta are in a western gang, but one of those that only rob postal coaches and trains and still have some sort of moral standards

Zahra is the daughter of the local clockmaker and set up a telegraph line as a teen with which she’d “listen in” to the telegraphs that are sent to the postal station

Michelle’s parents moved to that town from the city and want her to become a seamstress, like her mother, but she secretly studies to become a doctor

Diego’s parents own the towns retail shop but he’s always been dreaming of moving away, and living like the lonesome cowboys that are written about in the newspaper

Kele is also rather new there and just became the Sheriffs right hand man

Grace is the daughter of the mayor who also owns aforementioned newspaper (this would be Blaire). Her mother wants her to go into politics and business as well, but Grace rather studies the regions ecosystem

The Vaanti are a Native American tribe in this scenario

Rourke is the owner of a very big and just as dubious company (nobody really knows what the company is doing. Is it a railway company? A finance one? Real estate maybe?) Which buys up a lot of farms and land for unknown purposes, leaving abandoned ghost towns in its wake. Nobody knows why but it sure ain’t good when suddenly some random British industrial shows up and buys so much property. There are also rumors about him being involved in his wives mysterious death.

Lila is his assistant/secretary, who’s the one usually sent out to make a deal with the landowners at first. If she’s not successful the “special unit” (Lundgren and co) are called. She still killed Estelas mom, who in this AU was one of the companies accountants that noticed there’s something off with the firms finances.

Aleister is basically still the same, just now in the 19th century. He’s been sent to the town by his father to make a deal with Mayor Hall ( there might or might not be corruption involved ), but alas he has doubts about his fathers business

Lundgren is the leader of Rourkes gang of goons, who do the dirty work for him (like “convincing” farm owners that don’t want to sell). Tetra and Fiddler are part of those, of course.

Jake and Mike both came to the West from Louisiana in the search for a way to sustain their families back home . They’ve been working at the railroad, but one day got recruited by Lundgren. But at one point he ordered them to kill an innocent family that didn’t want to give up their land, which they refused to do. So they tried to flee, but Mike got shot. And since Lundgren bribed the Sheriff to declare Jake as the sole murderer of that family, he was on the run, and just so happened to come across this certain town, right as Lundgren and co are around. And he sees Mike again, who lost his memory (and eye - losing his legs too like he did in canon would be too problematic in that time) after he got hit by shrapnel from an explosion.

And MC? Well MC is truly a wildcard. A mysterious stranger, who came into the city after receiving a mysterious letter in the mail, who almost seems to have lost most of their memories as well.

I hope you enjoy this AU, because I sure do :D

I can already hear the background score for the duel at high noon ;)

[lostinfic]

8 | Swimming

Mercier x Betty British Raj AU

Calcutta, 1902. The word ‘dance’ comes to mind, their own choreography of gazes exchanged across the room, brushes of hands and half-spoken confessions. They orbit around each other, destined never to collide it seems; Mercier is upper class, Betty is a governess. And he’s spying on the family whose children she swore to protect. But in this foreign land of spices and silk, of golden gods and lush forests, where cultural norms clash and wane, even destinies must yield to desire.

Rating: Mature Word count: 3.4k You don’t need to have seen either show.

A/N: the bridges mentioned in this chapter are actually in Cherrapunji, not close to Kolkata. Check them out here Tumblr   |   Ao3   |   This chapter on Ao3

≔

Two days after her encounter with Jean-François at the theater, Betty received some surprising news.

“Gabrielle Mercier requires your help,” Lady Wigram announced, entering the governess’ classroom.

Betty looked up from the stitching she was preparing for today’s lesson.

“She sent her carriage. Hurry up, girl.”

As Betty walked past her, Lady Wigram grabbed her upper arm. “I have yet to receive an invitation to that wedding.”

“I will mention it.”

Betty was so surprised, she headed downstairs without taking any of her things.

Lord Wigram came down the stairs at the same moment.

"I have some business in town," he said vaguely. "Will you be back for supper?"

"I-- I don't know."

He looked suspicious. "Surely Miss Mercier won't keep you over for supper. The girls will need you tonight.”

"Yes, your lordship. I'll do my best to be back by then."

Outside the house, a driver held open the door of a closed carriage. Betty stepped in, wondering what Gabrielle could possibly need her help with.

“Good morning, Miss Salinger.”

“Jean-François! But-- what are you doing here?”

“Whisking you away.”

Betty squealed with joy and threw her arms around his neck to kiss him.

In a letter, she’d told him about lying to Lady Wigram about the earrings, saying she’d helped Gabrielle, and he’d found it was a perfect excuse to spend the spend the day with her.

“You crafty devil. Where are we going?”

“It’s a surprise,” he said.

“Can I get a clue?”

“You asked for companionship and adventure from me, and that is what you will have.”

The coach took them well outside the city limits. Betty stared through the window at these new landscapes unfolding before her eyes, feeling increasingly excited.

On a forest’s edge, they stopped in front of a small bungalow, the kind found all across the country, along the roads, for travelers to rest. This one was a bit more posh and cleaner. Jean-François explained it belonged to the French government, for those going into the jungle.

Above a stone fireplace, two rifles crossed under the stuffed head of a nilgai, a large specie of antelope. Betty turned her back to it.

“You will need to change clothes for our adventure today.” He handed her a canvas bag. “Gabrielle lends you these. You may choose whatever you like.”

Betty went into one of the bedrooms. Curious, she emptied the bag on the bare mattress. An assortment of skirts, shirts and hats tumbled down along with a pair of boots, all in various shades of white and brown. After some hesitation, she dared pick a toffee coloured skirt and a white button down, a bit too long so she tied it at the waist and rolled up the sleeves. She smiled at her reflection in the mirror, with her pith helmet and flat shoes, she looked like an explorer.

Jean-François too smiled when he saw her.

“Is this alright?” she asked, second-guessing herself. “Seems a bit improper.”

“I doubt we will meet other people. The important thing is that you are comfortable to walk in the forest.”

“I am.”

“Splendid.”

Jean-François shouldered a khaki canvas bag and guided her down a narrow, beaten-earth path. The skirt swished around Betty’s calves, it was shorter than her usual skirts, made for walking in tall grass and mud, she enjoyed feeling the breeze up her legs.

Their footsteps stirred the scent of moist soil and grass. Enormous spiky aloe veras and generous glossy ferns flanked the trail. They housed all manners of colourful caterpillars and iridescent-shelled critters. It was still early in the day, and mist lingered in the palms, sunlight streamed through it in soft beams. On the branches of eucalyptus and tulip trees, birds chirped to their heart’s content.

Ripe mangoes hung in grapes from a tree. Jean-François picked two and showed her how to peel it with her teeth. Juice ran down their fingers and chins, the fruit flesh was warm, sun-gorged, and sweet. It was messy and wonderful.

“We are almost there,” Jean-François said after a while.

“Where?”

“Listen.”

They stopped walking and stood in silence. Soon, the rush and gurgles of water reached her ears.

“A river?”

He smiled and took her hand, the excitement made him look years younger. The path curved to the right, and Betty saw a bridge arching over a flowing river.

Betty gasped. “Is that the bridge you told me about in your letter?”

“I wrote to you about a bridge?”

“You were drunk.”

“Ah. That letter.”

Betty bumped him with her shoulder. “It was charming in a way.”

“I saw this bridge in passing quite a while ago. I have wanted to come back since then.”

“So, you’ve been here before?”

“As I said, in passing, we were on a mission. I know the area a little bit, but I wanted to discover it with you.”

As they approached the bridge, Betty realized it was unlike any other bridge she had seen before. “It’s made out of roots!”

“Yes, the Indian rubber tree—”

“The Ficus Elastica. I read about it in a botany encyclopedia. Oh, it’s extraordinary!“ She smiled wide, pressing her hands to her cheeks as one would when looking at a puppy.

The rubber trees produced a series of secondary roots that the War-Khasis and War-Jaintias tribes pulled, twisted and tied to stretch across the river. It took years to accomplish, but these bridges lasted centuries, growing stronger over time.

“Can we walk on it?” she asked.

“I should hope so.”

Flat stones lay across the surface to facilitate the walk, moss covered them. On each side, roots of all sizes weaved together like a net, as high as Betty’s chest. She walked carefully, one hand clutching the side for support and the other gripping the back of Jean-François’ shirt. Under them, the river rushed by in great frothy gurgles.

A pair of children climbed on at the other end and ran the length of the bridge, passing swiftly under Betty and Jean-François’ arms. Feeling safer, Betty walked faster, enjoying rather than worrying. Crossing this organic bridge, in the middle of a lush forest with a lovely man felt like something out of a fairy tale. Glee bubbled up in her throat from the sheer delight of being so free, and Jean-François laughed with her.

Too soon, they reached the end, and he helped her down. He lifted by the waist and twirled her and held her until she was steady on her feet. They kissed with laughter on their lips.

They walked a while longer, a trail parallel to the river, leading downstream. They crossed path with a few locals, Betty said hello to them, but most bowed their heads and stepped out of their way.

As the day progressed, nearing noon, the air grew hotter and the animals quieter. No breeze stirred the branches. Betty pulled on her collar, drops of sweat slid down her back. She wiped her forehead on her sleeve. Jean-François touched her temple where sweat soaked the fine hairs there. He offered her some water.

"Do you want to stop? You may not be used to this kind exertion."

She huffed. “Try running after three kids all day."

“Fair enough.”

To hell with etiquette, this hat was only making her hotter and palm leaves provided shade enough. She pulled on the ribbon under the chin and fanned herself with the hat. "I must look a right mess."

"It suits you," he said. “I’m hot too. Let us find a nice spot to rest.”

They ventured away from the trail, towards the sandy bank. A month earlier, the river would have been overflowing from the rains. Some distance ahead, a cluster of rocks and boulders slowed the flow and filtered the larger debris. The water sparkled and meandered under the blue, cloudless sky. A hint of freshness rose from it, and enticed Betty.

As Jean-François spread a canvas sheet on the ground, Betty quickly removed her shoes and stepped into the river. A sigh, almost a moan, escaped her lips at the relief of cool water on her swollen feet.

“Will I have to rescue you from the river again?” Jean-François said.

Betty flustered and hurried out of the water. “Sorry, I shouldn’t have.”

“No, no, Betty, I was joking. Here.” He took off his own shoes, rolled up his trousers and joined her.

She blinked in surprise; her whole livelihood hinged on being strait-laced every hour of every day, so she still wasn’t used to someone accepting her deviations from etiquette.

The water rippled around their ankles, then, as the ripples faded out, their reflection materialized on the shimmering surface. Both of them, together, shoulder-to-shoulder, smiling. The sight of it shaped their bond into something tangible. Real, but fragile.

“You were so brave that day when you jumped to save the boy,” he said.

“Careless, more like.”

“No,” he said. “You were brave. I remember you said you would have liked to stay in the water because it was refreshing and you laughed…”

The way he smiled at the memory, shyly, head bowed and lines fanning out at the corners of his eyes, made her heart soar.

“Thank you,” she said, “for saving me that day... and every day after that it seems.”

Jean-François fervently kissed the back of both her hands.

“Shall we go for a swim?” she asked.

“Yes we shall, Betty Salinger,” he said fondly.

Betty hid behind a tree. Her heart hammered in her chest as she unbuttoned her shirt and removed her skirt. She hung them carefully over a branch. After a moment of hesitation, off came the petticoat and corset cover. Her hands shook as she released her corset and unclipped her stockings. Only her drawers and chemise remained, simple white garments with a thin trim of pink lace. With her arms and legs bare, the heat she felt could not be blamed on her layers of clothing anymore.

Hesitantly, she stepped out of her makeshift dressing room, arms covering her chest. She had not let a man see her like this in five years. Jean-François had undressed down to his pants and undershirt. She could tell he was trying not to stare at her.

“Ready?” he asked.

She took his hand ,and they ran into the water, giggling, and dipped their whole bodies in one go. Jean-François emerged, shaking the water off his curls.

“The water is gorgeous,” Betty said.

She floated on her back among the water lilies and closed her eyes against the sun. Her body swayed to every ripple in the water.

Before long, she became aware of her breasts peeking above the water, the wet linen of her chemise clinging to her skin. She kept her eyes closed, pretended she wasn’t aware of it and hoped Jean-François noticed.

A branch fell into the river, and Jean-François stood up to remove it. The white cotton of his pants couldn’t hide the effect she had on him.

“So you really do like me,” she teased.

He studied her with a strange look in his eyes.

“What is it?”

“Who are you, Betty?”

“Pardon?”

“When we first met, you were suspicious of my intentions and I presumed you had been deceived by a man before, but there is more to that story.” He swam closer to her. “And your letters, they show a certain inclination. You’re not… innocent.”

Despite the cool water, Betty’s cheeks flared up. She’d promised herself she would never tell the story, not even to her husband-- if she ever married, which was unlikely in her position.

Betty swam away, to a flat rock and hiked herself up on it. Under Jean-François’ expectant gaze, she fiddled nervously with the edge of her chemise.

“You can trust me,” he insisted.

A lump rose in her throat. She wanted to open up to him.

“The first family I worked for, the man was a doctor. There was a regiment in our town, and soldiers often came to the house for ailments. It’s how I met… him. An officer, from Poland. He said he loved me, promised we would run away together and marry. We were caught, I lost my position, and he left, heartbroken, without making good on any of his promises.”

“This is why you had to use Wigram’s obligation to you father?”

“I would never have found work again otherwise. If I were smart, I would not have come here with you.”

“You’re safe with me, Betty. I always keep my promises.”

“You’ve never promised me anything.”

“Because I don’t take it lightly. I can promise you I will not tell a soul about what happened with the Polish man.”

She held his gaze for signs of treachery-- he didn’t waver.

After a moment, he sat on another rock, facing her.

“What kind of man do you like?” he asked.

“Honest. And kind.”

“I really do like you, Betty.”

Without thinking, she glanced at his crotch, down to a more modest size.

“You said honest and kind, you didn’t say anything about size.”

She laughed.

“Was he a good lover?”

She blushed, not only because of the question, but because of the answer.

“Do you still want me?” she replied instead of answering. “Yes.”

“I ain’t a trollop.”

“I know. It’s not easy for you women.”

“Is that why you didn’t want to do it behind the theatre? Because you thought I was innocent.”

“I didn’t want to do it there because you deserve better.”

“Is a river any better?”

“You tell me.”

Betty considered their surroundings, all these different trees and flowers, insects and animals, wild yet living in harmony. Nature at its purest. And she thought, if humans were stripped from their petty civilities and prejudiced morality, maybe this attraction between her and Jean-François would also be nature at its purest.

“Would you kiss me again? Just a little,” she said.

Mercier slid off the rock, and crossed the river to her. Her breath hitched as he rose from the water. Leaning forward, he placed his hands on each side of her hips. Drops fell from his hair, down his nose, landing on his bottom lip. He slowly cocked his head to the side, her lips parted with an expectant sigh, and he pecked her Cupid’s bow.

“Not fair.”

“Payback’s fair.”

She pouted.

“You said ‘just a little’,” he pointed out.

“You know what I want.”

“You think me a mind-reader. I suspect you don’t even know yourself what you want.”

“I do… but I also know I shouldn’t want it.”

“Do you think what we’re doing is wrong?”

“Well, Lady Wigram—”

“No. What do you think?”

“I think I want more.”

She kissed that spot again, at the base his throat, licked the water up his neck and nipped his jaw. He whispered a French curse before capturing her mouth.

His nails scratched the rock and the tendons of his arms tightened as he restrained himself from touching her body. She had no such qualms and slipped her hands under his shirt, caressing up his waist, exploring his ribs.

Since meeting her, he had not been with another woman, and his flesh reacted wildly to her touch. Like striking a match, sparks of pleasure kindling the heat in his stomach. He had to stop before it consumed him. He leaned back to break the kiss, but she pushed forward, and gently caught his lower lip between her teeth. Something like a growl echoed in his chest, he slid a hand through her hair, and licked at the seam of her mouth and she let him in. They tasted each other’s moans. He bucked his hips into her knees, and she opened them to accommodate his body.

“Betty, I have to stop, before I can’t—” She interrupted his protest with an eager kiss, wrapping arms and legs around him.

She wiggled her hips.

He gave up on resisting her.

With both hands on her bum, he drew her to him. Through the fabric of her drawers, he felt the heat of her sex. He couldn’t resist pressing against her, seeking friction on his hard length. She held him tighter and moved her hips. Mercier hissed against her mouth. He devoured her neck with kisses, travelling lower, licking along her collarbone and over the swell of her breast. Spurred on by her moans, he sucked through her wet chemise until her nipple pebbled between his teeth.

Betty grounded desperately against him. Strangled noises, half moans, half sobs, escaped her throat as she clawed at his back. It wasn’t just water now soaking their underwear.

He wanted to tear their clothes away, but even for that he couldn’t stop. Her scent, her kisses, the way she whispered his name, it all intoxicated him. He’d imagined making love to her slowly, but here he was, sweat beading down his spine, as he rutted between her legs.

Betty bit his shoulder to muffle her cries. She was close. He cupped the nape of her neck to make her look at him. Her hair was wild, her pupils blown wide.

“Please.”

He pushed her legs farther apart, pressing more directly into her.

Between the folds of fabric, his thumb found her sensitive nub. He rubbed tight circles and admired the moment pleasure overwhelmed her. Her jaw dropped, her eyes fluttered shut, and he caught her last breath of release with a kiss.

“Beautiful.”

She covered her mouth with her fingertips, a passing mortification that morphed into giggles. He kissed her over her fingers, sucked lightly on the tips.

Mercier lowered himself in the water, he rested his head on her knee as he stroke himself. She ran her fingers through his hair, and he bit her inner thigh when he came.

“And I was just thinking we’re not so different from animals,” Betty said. The mirth in her voice told him she wasn’t upset by what they’d just done.

“Yes, animals.“ He nuzzled her neck, imitating a cat’s purr, and she scratched behind his ear.

They spent the next hour, lounging idly under the sun, her head on his chest, his arms around her, altering their position only to sip water or grab a snack. Now that she’d revealed the truth about her past, they spoke more freely. An intimacy of minds and bodies, sharing doubts and caresses, secrets and kisses. Every time Mercier learned something new about her, his affection grew tenfold, and with it a protective streak.

“Have you seen another Frenchman at your house? De Brem, he’s blond with a mustache?” he asked.

“I think so, a few times.”

“Has he talked to you?”

“No. Jean-François, what’s wrong?”

He told her how de Brem sent him to Dhaka under false pretenses to harass Gabrielle. “When he was at my house… he saw a letter from you to me.”

“He knows? Why didn’t you say so before?” She raised herself on one arm, alarmed.

“I’m not sure. It may be nothing, but steer clear of him.” And he added, to reassure her, “I’m taking care of it.”

He’d already sent a petition to his superiors and confronted de Brem himself about his behaviour. He couldn’t tell Betty de Brem was now in charge of the investigation on Wigram as Mercier had yet to reveal he’d been spying on her employer.

“It must make your work unpleasant,” she said.

“It already was.”

There was the boredom of this administrative tasks now that the thrill of being in a foreign country had passed, but every day he grew more uncomfortable with the European presence in India. In Dhaka, his mission had been to help a French plantation owner settle a dispute with the authorities to ensure the prosperity of his business. But his wealth came from abusing the local people; they toiled in the indigo fields, from dusk till dawn, under a relentless sun for a meager salary while he sipped brandy in his ornate living room.

“They would be better off without us,” he summed up. “You saw how they fear us and hate us. With good reasons.”

“But I thought we were doing a good thing. Helping them.”

“How?”

“Well, we-- we employ them.”

“As servants, slaves almost!”

Betty flinched at his outburst. “I didn’t think…”

Of course, she believed the propaganda the British empire fed to its citizens. Elaborate intellectual arguments to justify the exploitation: bringing them democracy and a modern lifestyle.

She hadn’t been in India long and always within the British district of Calcutta, surrounded by people who had made their fortune on the backs of Indians. She had not seen everything he had. He described the poverty and abuse he’d witnessed, but censored himself so as not to upset her too much.

Her forehead puckered and her lips set into a grim line. “That’s awful,” she said quietly.

He tugged her back to him, and gently stroke her back.

“Will you go back to France, then? If you don’t like it here,” she asked.

“Maybe. France or elsewhere. Somewhere new.”

“For adventures?”

“For adventure,” he agreed.

“Then you shall need companionship.”

“Indeed.”

They smiled at each other and kissed. There was a promise, on the tip of his tongue, but he wasn’t sure he could make it quite yet. Soon, he thought, holding Betty closer.

Chapter 9: Shivering