#even in progressive historical romances

[mermaidsirennikita]

Interesting convo about the suitability of Ancient Rome as a setting for historical romance led to the question of "If Ancient Rome not okay for historical romance setting, why Regency okay" (a good convo to have, imo), which then led to "Regency okay because we can say this duke was good to his servants which is an acceptable handwave; no acceptable handwave for Ancient Rome".

With the implication being that because the everyday exploitation is VISIBLE in Ancient Rome, whereas it's Off Elsewhere for the dukes (who benefited, let us be clear, from an empire based on slavery, indentured servitude, and colonialism, whether or not they WANTED TO), the dukes can get a handwave

And I find that. Pretty bad tbh.

[literaticat]

If an author writes a book not knowing the genre, will the book fit into a genre when it’s finished—or is it possible for a book to be completely genre-less?

I'm about to GO OFF, so if you just want the short answer:

I presume that if an author is writing a novel and they don't have a specific genre in mind when they are doing it, they are just writing fiction. You can get more specific after you finish the book and figure out where it belongs in the bookstore and how to describe it.

It's not really possible for a book to be "completely genre-less" because that implies that it CAN'T be categorized in a bookstore -- I bet your book can be. (I should hope so, anyway, otherwise how will it sell???) -- but also, uh -- it doesn't really matter? Everyone gets really hung up on these hyper-specific genre labels, but you don't really need to get THAT specific. If your book is just "general interest fiction" that's OK -- so call it a novel and describe what the tone is. (Funny? Realistic? Literary? Fast paced? Tearjerking? There has to be some way to describe it, no? )

Even if your book is just weird as hell rambling about things I would never read about in a hundred years -- guess what, that's a genre, Experimental Fiction. ;-)

--

Long Answer: Fun fact about the word "genre" -- it comes from the same root as genus, like what you probably heard back in school when learning about the taxonomy of animals and whatnot.

Because I am extra, I decided to do a little taxonomy of books. It's still a work in progress, I might decide to change it a bit, but this is the basic chart.

I'll assume that pretty much any book we're talking about here has the same domain, kingdom, phylum and class, and PROBABLY the same order, too, since most of you are likely writing Fiction.

Within the order FICTION, there are "families", which I here call Categories -- novels, graphic novels, plays, essay collections, short story anthologies, young adult novels, young adult anthologies, middle grade novels, middle grade graphic novels, chapter books, picture books, ETC. Categories in the order NONFICTION include Biography/Memoir, Cookbook, Reference, Religion, History, Science, etc.

Within each Category, there are different Genres -- that is, the type of [novel, or whatever] it is. Genres of novel include mystery, science fiction, horror, realistic, historical, romance, western, etc.

And within each Genre, you can get even more specific with species, which I am calling subgenre/tone. That's the type of the type, in other words. There are well-established subgenres (like Horror could be slasher, or gothic, or psychological. Romance could be historical, or realistic/contemporary, or whatever) -- but it's also acceptable to get more specific with tone or style -- "Comedic", "literary", "commercial" "upmarket" etc. (You can also have books that have both subgenre AND tone -- that's like species and sub-species)

Examples:

DRACULA: ORDER: Fiction > CATEGORY: Classic Novel > GENRE: Horror > SUBGENRE/TONE: Gothic

DON'T LET THE PIGEON DRIVE THE BUS: ORDER: Fiction > CATEGORY: Picture Book > GENRE: Meta-fiction > SUBGENRE/TONE: Comedic

LINCOLN IN THE BARDO: ORDER: Fiction > CATEGORY: Novel > GENRE: Magical Realism > SUBGENRE: Experimental > TONE: Literary

JAMES: ORDER: Fiction > CATEGORY: Novel > GENRE: Historical Fiction > SUBGRENRE: Retelling > TONE: Literary

You get it?

OK SO, in the bookstore, the books are first divided by CATEGORY. All the Cookbooks are together, because that's the Category, but if there are a lot of them, they will be broken up into categories-within-the-category ("genre" if you will). Perhaps they would be grouped by region or style (Mexican cuisine, Middle Eastern cuisine, European cuisine; Health Food; Baking; etc). Mastering the Art of French Cooking would be in Cookbooks, of course -- but in a larger bookstore with many cookbooks, it would likely be found in its region, either French or European Cuisine -- and in a store with a HUGE French cooking section, those books might even be further divided into "French > classic techniques" "French > desserts" "French > postmodern cuisine", etc. So:

MASTERING THE ART OF FRENCH COOKING: Order: Nonfiction > Category: Cookbook > Genre: French > Subgenre: Classic Technique

And so it goes with Fiction as well; the sections are divided by Category. So all the Middle Grade Novels are probably together. All the Picture Books are probably together. Etc. But for very large categories (like Fiction > Novel), there are enough books that it becomes easier to browse if they give the biggest genres their own shelving. Hence there are probably sections for Mystery, Science Fiction/Fantasy, Romance, etc.

MIND YOU: There are PLENTY of books that fall under "Fiction" and DON'T get separated out into one of those other genres. They are just categorized as fiction. The fiction section is probably the largest section in most bookstores -- it's not weird to write a book that gets filed in the "fiction" section! Those books still have a genre. That genre just might be "realistic" or "historical" or "western" or magical realism" or "postmodern/experimental" or something that doesn't neatly fall into the Mystery or Science Fiction (or whatever) genre categories.

For example: At my bookstore, we ONLY separate out Mystery, Science Fiction/Fantasy/Horror, Romance, Classics. So within the regular Fiction section you'll find a huge variety of books -- they all DO have a "genre" -- it just isn't one of those genres that gets shelved separately!

So, no, I don't believe there are books that just *don't have* a category or genre. ALL books have them. We might disagree a little about what they should be -- we might use slightly different words -- new species might pop up here and there -- we might be able to categorize some of them into even more minute niches -- but all books CAN be categorized in some fashion.

[jcollinswrites]

Weeping Gods (WIP)

This tale sweeps you up and drops you back 3500 years into the past, straight onto the banks of the Nile, at the dawn of the Egyptian New Kingdom. The Empire has only been liberated from a hundred year old occupation. The scars left by the war are still healing and yet, threats loom on the horizon again. Some powerful artifacts have been stolen and the king entrusts you with their recovery. Suddenly finding yourself out of your depth and all out of options, you have no choice but to agree to the dangerous mission. You don't know what awaits you on this journey but you know one thing for sure: if you don't catch the enemies of the empire, you will risk more than your own life.

Take your fate into your own hands, solve mysteries, meet new friends, fall in love, learn about magic, monsters, spirits, gods, and have fun in the ancient Egyptian Kingdom in this historical fantasy novel.

The story is a work of fiction and is not historically accurate.

Features

Choose from 4 different origin characters, each with unique stories and choices that will follow you through the rest of the game: - a priest in over their head with a caring and loyal mentor - a noble very much in over their head with a problematic family - the captain of the Theban Guard, who is way too tired for this - a thief from the slums of Thebes, desperate for survival

Play as male, female or non-binary; gay, straight or bi.

Build friendships, rivalries, or find love with a young prince, a mysterious spymaster, a brooding spirit, an elite warrior… or even the pharaoh himself.

Explore Egypt through a series of adventures with a ragtag team of characters

Solve mysteries, climb the Great Pyramid of Giza, deal with the sparks of revolution, and help secure the kingdom's future

Warnings: The story will contain heavy and dark themes, excessive swearing, mental health problems, and optional sexual content, so it is recommended for mature audiences only. The whole list of triggering content can be found in the beginning of the demo.

The Romances

Narmer - A kind and patient man with a golden heart, a fierce sense of duty, a bloody past, and way too little free time.

Qenna (m/f) - The living enigma. Fun and casual at first glance, but why is everyone warning you against spending time with them?

Zaia (m/f) - Spends most of their time brooding or hiding from people, but they can be surprisingly cheeky with those they feel comfortable with.

Tabiry - A dependable and loyal woman, she is the type of person you could trust to have your back in any situation.

Ahmose (m/f) - Young and impressionable, with a dazzling smile and too much hope for a better future.

The Demo

Chapters 1 - 4

Chapter 5 in progress (patreon only until further notice)

Public demo word count : 528 000 words Patreon demo word count: 596 000 words Average playthrough on any origin: around 80 000 words

Last public update: 14. Mar. 2025. Last patreon update: 18. Apr. 2025. (First published: 14. Aug. 2024.)

DEMO | Patreon | FAQ | ROs and NPCs | CoG Forum | Pinterest

[ferhog]

On this day 2 years ago I got to finally start watching a new full-blown Gundam show as it was airing since getting into the franchise in 2017. I was excited to see the series handle its first female protagonist (And yes she was, don't come at me with your technicalities), and dared to hope there'd be some ship teasing between her and that fancy looking girl she was reaching out to on the poster.

Only to have my expectations blown away by this line:

Sapphic leads in Gundam was my dreams made manifest and I still can't believe it actually happened. Like for how progressive Gundam has historically been gay central romance in anime is usually reserved for niche works specifically about that subject and certainly not massive franchises like this. I can't even be that mad that they didn't kiss on screen because this feels like anime Korrasami and I don't think I'd been this kind of excitement since that happened back in 2014.

[uglypastels]

Ridlington Park | I | Eddie Munson regency!au

Author's Note: It has been a long, long time, but I am back with another obnoxious AU. I hope you enjoy as we embark on this new adventure in Regency England. This story has been in the works for almost 2 years and is still far from finished, but I am having too much fun with this and have way too many ideas on where to take it, so suggestions are very much appreciated.

Word Count: 10k

Do be warned, Dear Reader, for this story in its entirety may contain:

female!reader. slow burn. forbidden romance. jealousy. pining. smut. alcohol consumption. swearing. OC family. horses. talks of arranged marriage. historical facts as well as trivial inaccuracies.

Due to the adult nature of the story, this author also kindly but sternly requires underage readers to pursue other works. 

The Ridlington Park Collection | Correspondence | Join the Taglist

Chapter One: A Game of Perseverance

“I do not want people to be very agreeable, as it saves me the trouble of liking them.”

– Jane Austen, Letter to her sister Cassandra, 1798

Three stories high, full of balconied windows, the house stood tall and overlooked the entire street. Ridlington Park, they called it, and situated at the centre of life–that is, London–the front door of the building was enveloped in flowers matching the seasons all year long. Currently, it was bright peonies that caught the onlooker’s eye. The perfectly trimmed bushes and trees were planted symmetrically, leading up to the front doors, giving visitors the right impression of what they could await once they stepped inside.

The residing family had spent a good fortune and effort ensuring the house represented them perfectly: clean, fortunate, and grand, but all done so in the utmost respectable and modest fashion as they were never the ones to boast. The walls had a light, warm tone reminiscent of early mornings in Spring, and the interior was decorated with portraits, new and old, beautiful oil sceneries of lands near and far, and busts and vases. 

The evening was slowly approaching, the sun setting over the windows of the drawing room, enwrapping everything in a golden glow. The family sat silently around the room, giving each other the peace and quiet required for an uneventful afternoon followed by a slow night of fortunate sleep. The only sound appreciated was the pianoforte siding against the window, gracefully played by Mother. Four children sat around the separate corners of their world, enjoying the music while focusing on their own activities. Like most nights, these consisted of either reading or needlework, engaging in small conversations with one another occasionally. 

As typical as any evening at Ridlington Park, it was highly unusual for the rest of London– a city which runs on scandals and gossip. Outside, the streets were bustling with lords and ladies of the Ton making their way back home from the markets, gardens and their fellows’ tea parties, gossiping about the latest impropriety to have occurred. After all, such topics, no more than nonsense really, were simply inescapable. And no matter how hard they tried to ignore it all, one way or another, it would always find its way up to the Byrnwick family. Most of the time, you, Gentle Reader, could hold yourself accountable for introducing the rumours proudly, much to your brother’s annoyance, who did his best to turn the pages of his novel as loud as possible as you talked with your mother from across the room. 

‘Have you heard what happened at Lady Faulkner’s ball?’

  ‘Yes, sordid, really.’ Your mother sighed, turning around. ‘I am sure her family is in quite the uproar.’

‘Please,’ Christopher, your brother, shut his book down in frustration, clearly incapable of making any progress amidst the conversation. ‘If she had not wanted to get caught, she should have maybe ought to think twice about being out with a man in the middle of the gardens for everyone to see.’ 

You glared up at him. ‘Well, it is absurd that a woman cannot even stand in a public space with a man without bringing disgrace onto her entire family.’

‘Believe me; she did much more than just standing.’ Christopher scoffed, quickly receiving a cold stare from your mother. 

‘Still, it is unjust.’ You ignored his insinuations. ‘Think of how men are free to go out at any time of day or night with whomever they please.’ You stabbed your needle through the cloth a bit harsher than intended.

‘My, you sure seem to be giving all this much thought. Have you any plans we should know about, sister?’ Your brother smirked.

‘Christopher!’ Your mother scowled. ‘That is quite enough.’

‘I was only joking, Mother,’ Christopher sighed, ‘we all know she is not going anywhere anytime soon.’

You were ready to retort angrily, or at least throw your needle at him, when the doors to the drawing room opened, catching everyone’s attention by storm. Five pairs of identical eyes directly aimed at the door frame, only softening when recognising the intruders. A welcoming of surprised gasps greeted the Lord and his eldest, Nicholas, as they entered the room. Not one foot in the room, and all activities were being put to a halt as the rest of the family gathered around the men—a loving reunion after a months-long journey from the Americas. 

It was a surprising return, for father and son had yet to write of their plans in recent times. The last letter was received at Ridlington Park over three weeks ago, stating that the weather was amiable, if not a bit too humid, and that the family missed each other deeply. The lack of correspondence, therefore, was also an immediate subject. 

‘But why did you not write, dear?’ asked Mother, after embracing her son. Nicholas was too occupied by his youngest sibling to answer; airways tightened in the arms of his 11-year-old sister, Marjorie. His father responded instead:

‘How could we write at sea, my love? The message would not have gotten here any faster than we did,’ the lord chuckled to his wife. He was correct, too, of course. His eyes seemed to surpass the gaze of his present family members in search of the one missing piece. ‘Where is Annabelle? I thought she would be home by now.’ 

‘She is home, with her husband,’ you explained carefully. Your father blinked slowly, coming to terms with this fact he had tried to avoid for so long. Annabelle had married last season and was very well off, to a Duke, no less, but it was still a big adjustment for the family seeing her gone and out of the house. Even with her frequent visits, it was strange to have one head less at the dinner table; one less chair occupied each evening, one less song played on the pianoforte. 

‘Ah, well then,’ Father cleared his throat, ‘then we are complete.’ He looked at his wife and five children. One day, there would be even fewer of them. They will all be leaving the nest one by one. For some, marriage was long overdue, and as a man of high society, he could not wish his children a suitor or a lady soon enough, but as a father, he dreaded the day that the following proposals would take place.

Marjorie, becoming impatient and not as sentimental about her family’s reunion, tugged at Nicholas’ sleeve. ‘Come, you must tell us everything about your journey!’ She kept pulling until the eldest brother had no choice but to follow her and sit on the couch. Soon, everyone else joined on the chaises. 

‘I am afraid there is very little to tell,’ Nicholas said, taking a chocolate biscuit off the tray beside the sofa. ‘It was all rather dull.’ 

‘Do not be ridiculous, brother,’ Fitzwilliam, the second-youngest and still hungry for adventure and the world outside of the Ton, looked at his older brother with high expectations. ‘I do not believe you and Father had been gone this long and did not experience anything worthy of a tale.’ 

You listened on as your siblings bickered, arguing over the value of a story, and its worth of being told and heard. Finally, after listening to it for about a quarter of an hour, you had to agree with Nicholas; it was all rather dull. No wonder neither he nor father did not bother to mention anything but the weather in their correspondence. Their days quickly grew into a pattern one is used to in travel and business. A pattern you might have understood if you cared to pay attention. 

This attention only returned to the room when you heard your name being spoken. The conversation had shifted from the events that had been missed overseas to the town's happenings. Just as dull and irrelevant, some might say, the most interesting thus far was the staff changes at the house, and even these held very little consequence to you, but to this, some may disagree wholeheartedly. 

‘So, the season has begun, has it not, sister?’ Nicholas asked. 

‘Some weeks ago, yes.’ You did your best pretending not to feel an effect from this, occupying yourself with your needlework that was turning out far below the usual standard. ‘But do not worry; you have not missed much. In fact, I think things will finally begin to get a bit interesting with you back home.’ Nicholas had always had a taste for dramatics and had been known for having a very… loving nature. In the past years, you must have witnessed him falling in love at least a dozen times, preparing a proposal to half of these women, going through with it twice now, with one nearly making it to the alter if not for the bride getting caught in quite a compromising position with a footman.

For the next few weeks, Nicholas was known as the heartbroken gentleman, and you would have felt bad for him… if it was not for the fact that women from all over town came around to console him, day after day, of course not knowing that when his bride-to-be had been making arrangements with other men, your brother had been too busy charming ladies himself. It took a month for him to proclaim his love to another woman again.

‘I do not know what you mean,’ Nicholas deflected your comment, quickly looking over to your mother and second oldest brother, Christopher, ‘any fitting suitors I should be aware of?’ As the eldest brother, Nicholas made it his duty to ensure his sisters found good husbands. That meant status and wealth but, above anything else, a good and genteel nature. You remembered how picky he was when Annabelle had been searching for a husband, even more so than your parents. Still, it was something you appreciated about your brother. His protectiveness showed the little heart he still held for you and the rest of your family, as much as he tried to hide it away. 

Your mother bit her cheek, holding in the many thoughts and opinions she must have kept for herself. So did Christopher, who shared a very knowledgeable look of many words with Nicholas, one he understood clearly but you could not decipher just yet. However, you assumed the general message had been sent and received. 

‘If you had seen the choices, brother, you would understand my predicament and situation all too well, believe me.’ Pretending to seem unbothered by the encrypted messages being sent around the room, you preoccupied yourself once more with the needlework. 

‘I believe it is what you believe, sister,’ Nicholas turned back to your mother, ‘do you have a list of names? I shall go through them in the morning, see if it really is as bad as we are being told.’ 

You had wanted to reply, most likely in a dishonourable way, but you held your tongue and fell back in your seat, letting the rest of your family plan out the rest of your life, just like they had always done. 

Unbelievable, Nicholas was home for all of five minutes, and he was already making lists. And knowing him, which you would like to think you did, it was merely a formality for your sake. He would already have a dozen names at the top of his head, ready to send out invitations to men for an audience with you. 

Therefore, you were not surprised when, only a few days later, at the breakfast table, Nicholas told you about all the guests Ridlngton Park would soon be welcoming. 

‘There is Mr Elton, and Mr Brookes will be coming over for tea; I also heard Lord Frankworth is interested in a visit, so is Mr Campbell, and—’ he kept on giving you names, with all of them entering one ear and immediately leaving through your other. You could not care less who wanted to see you, not after spending the last month trying your hardest to escape all of their attempts at promenading, lunching, and chatting of sheer nonsense. 

‘I must ask you to be ready for your first audience before 10; a dress is already prepared in your room.’ Of course, there was a dress. All you could do was smile as you bit into a forkful of egg. 

‘Oh, and there is one gentleman I would particularly like you to meet,’ your father chimed in, almost as if with an afterthought that he recollected at the last minute. You looked up at him apprehensively. ‘I had made a nice acquaintance of his father on our travel. What was his name– Harrolds, no…’  ‘Harrington, father. It was Mr Harrington.’ Nicholas corrected before looking over to you as he shared more. ‘He is a tradesman, quite successful. His only son had joined us on the ship back to England.’ The emphasis on his lineage was made with an apparent inclination. There were no more heirs, meaning the son would inherit the man’s entire wealth. ‘Certainly seems like a reasonable young man, clever too. The two of you will have lots to speak of.’

Well, I certainly cannot wait to meet him,’ you forced out a smile before quickly getting on with your meal despite losing all your appetite. At that moment, your stomach felt like a hollow pit, eating away at you, ironically.

‘You know, if you gave this all a chance, you might find yourself to actually enjoy it in the end,’ your mother commented with a tight lip. 

‘I am sure I shall enjoy it then, as it means that it has all, in fact, ended.’ You sighed deeply, ‘I simply do not understand why this is a must in my life? Why must I marry this instant?’

‘Do not worry, dear. You are still young; you still have plenty of time, ' your father said, missing your point entirely and making you roll your eyes. ‘But your mother is right, too, a more agreeable attitude towards this will make things much easier.’

‘For whom, exactly? Is it for me to enjoy myself, or for everyone else as you will not have to endure me any longer?’

‘Can you really blame us?’ Nicholas mumbled, receiving a kick in the shin in return. He spent the rest of the discussion rubbing the targetted spot on his leg with a pained crease between his brows. You, besides gaining the small victory of maiming your brother, found yourself yet again on the losing side of another family dispute. Like all its predecessors, this battle ended with you pushing back your chair with a harsh scrape of the panelled floor and slugging back to your room where a dress awaited. 

It was beautiful; you could not deny that. Elegant and straightforward, it accented all your finest assets for interested suitors. It was comfortable: not too heavy or too textured in its pattern, it was made of soft material that slipped right on, with the fit of a well-tailored glove. Your hair was pulled up and out of your face, leaving nothing to hide behind. 

‘You look lovely, miss,’ your maid said with a kind smile as she put the final pin in your hair. 

‘Thank you, Claire.’ You muttered, noticing the saddened sympathy enveloping her features as she knew like no other how much you detested everything about what you were about to go through. ‘Have you got any advice? On how to endure it all?’

‘I’m afraid not,’ she shrugged, brushing something off your shoulder. ‘I suppose you could try making them uninterested in you, so they will want to leave sooner.’

‘That thought has crossed my mind,’ you admitted, ‘but I also do not want to put my entire family to shame.’ 

‘Of course, miss.’ Claire nodded. As she finished working on your presentation, you pondered over your possibilities. Indeed, presenting yourself as improper had been your first idea, and its appeal remained, but you were too afraid of the repercussions. If the gentlemen were to think of you as a lady without any manners, all it would do was put your upbringing up for question, something your parents did not deserve whatsoever. 

You also considered spreading gossip about the men coming to introduce themselves, which would scare your mother off them immediately, ensuring they were never to return by your parents’ preference. But it felt cruel to make up such lies. You were sure that in other circumstances, these were perfectly fine men. At this particular moment, you just happened to despise them and everything they stood for.

Perhaps the most appealing option was to simply not attend the audience. To run away and never to return… at least until the afternoon, once all the men had lost all their patience. But that would only cause you more trouble.

The ideas rolled around your head for the rest of the day, even once the suitors sat opposite you in the room. It was all incredibly dull, if not just mortifyingly humiliating, with your mother sitting only across the room, occupying herself with a book, or so it seemed because she most definitely was listening to the conversations attempted on your part.

‘So,’ as most of the dialogues began, the Lord whose name you already forgot spoke, clearing his throat, ‘I hear you read.’

‘Yes, ' you said, blinking to avoid staring too blankly at the wall behind the man, ignoring the balding patch atop his head. 

‘Grand,’ he smiled, somehow satisfied with your response already.

‘Do you… ride?’ you asked, hoping that at the least your mother heard your attempts at making a connection and would release you from this torment soon enough on the principle of your good sportsmanship.

‘No, God no, horses are far too beastly for my liking, unless we are speaking of the track, of course.’ The man scoffed, ‘However, I prefer more dignified activities, such as hunting.’ 

‘Of course, you do,’ you smiled, but the expression never reached your eyes. ‘What about chess? Do you play?’

‘I do not have the patience to commit to such silly games.’

Patience, you thought, or intelligence? And how ironic of him to speak of perseverance. You watched him take another small sandwich from the tea tray provided on a side table, which you were taught to ignore so as not to be observed as “gluttonous”. After all, no one wanted to marry a lady that ate all day. 

Considering that, you grabbed a plate and a piece of cake from the top of the tray and bit into it. The soft sponge melted on your tongue. In the meantime, you were asked a question, but you could not possibly answer with a mouthful of cake, could you? Once you had finished, you considered grabbing a second portion, but you could feel the judgmental look of your mother digging into the back of your head. 

You put the plate back down and your hands on your lap. 

‘I’m sorry, my lord, could you repeat the question, please. I fear I may have lost myself for a moment.’ And so, it continued. Thankfully, the man excused himself not long after, thanking you and your mama for the time, just for his seat to be replaced with someone else almost immediately. This time, the gentleman was significantly younger, with thick hair atop his head and charming eyes, but the second he spoke, you knew this would not reach much further than the comfort of this room. At the least, you did not see this relationship going any further than any of the other acquaintances you had made that day.

By lunchtime, you felt your eyes burning with fatigue, possibly caused by a constant suppression of tears. How much more could you possibly take of this torture?

‘Mr Elton was quite a charmer, was he not?’ Your mother commented as she sipped her tea. 

You suppressed your initial thought, rephrasing it to cause less offence, ‘He is too stubborn and self-centred. He barely let me speak a single word, too occupied by his own achievements to expect me to have any.’ 

‘Well, Lord Frankworth seemed to care very much for what you had to say.’ 

‘Only because he barely managed to string any thoughts together himself,’ you sighed. 

Your mother tightened her grip on the teacup before smiling. ‘Soon enough, we will find you a perfectly fine young man, dear. You just have to remain open-minded.’ She glanced at the clock. ‘Speaking of, your next suitor should be here shortly.’ 

You did everything in your power not to groan at the announcement and instead nodded politely. ‘Who is it?’ 

‘Mr Harrington, the one your father was so keen on you meeting.’

‘Ah,’ yes, the American. The only thing that gave you some slight hope in the situation was that Mr Harrington had already spent plenty of time in the company of your father and brother Nicholas and had seemingly gained their blessing. But nothing could help you gain the energy to entertain yet another man with polite conversation. The sun had been beaming into the room since the early morning, only growing warmer and warmer, making the hairs at the small of your neck stick. 

‘Will you just excuse me for a moment, mother.’ You got up. 

‘Is something wrong?’ She looked suspicious but with a glint of worry in her eye. 

‘I am quite fine, just require some fresh air, I think,’ which was not entirely a lie.

‘Alright then, just make haste, child.’ Mr Harrington was on his way, after all. ‘We do not want to keep the man waiting.’ 

‘Of course not,’ you smiled, heading towards the door. When the large panels closed behind you, you picked up your skirt and ran toward the gardens. Your footsteps echoed through the corridors, and you caught several members of the house staff glancing your way with inquisitive looks. 

Ever since you could remember, the grounds around Ridlington Park had a fantastical power about them. It had been the turf on which you would spend countless childhood summer days playing games with your siblings, whether the competitive or imaginary type. But no matter what the six of you could think of, your favourite game would always remain Hide and Go Seek. The gardens were a perfect place for it, with endless nooks and crannies one could disappear into. It was nearly a giant maze, and you had mastered it from a very young age. Whilst most got lost between the shrubbery and flowers, you knew exactly where you had found yourself. 

There were plenty of hiding spots you enjoyed over the years, some that to this day remain a mystery to the rest of your family, but nonetheless, it was the stables you adored the most. It was a safe haven for you on many days, to the point that you had nearly become invisible to the staff working there. 

The stables were located in the far east corner of the grounds, and the walk towards it already cost more time than you had if you had ever planned on returning that quickly. Undeniably, there was a pinch of shame and guilt nipping at your heart towards the strange Mr Harrington, but that soon dissolved when you heard the neighing of Barley Sugar, a golden-brown mare you proudly called yours. A gift and result of a successful business trade made by your father years ago, the horse technically belonged to all of the Byrnwick children, as much as any of the other horses under the family’s possession, but the bond between you and that particular horse just turned out to be that much stronger. 

This was visible as soon as you entered the stable. Barley Sugar went wild at your presence, happily swinging her head from side to side. 

‘Oh, we can both use an escape, I see,’ you grinned, petting the horse, who leaned into your touch immediately. ‘How about I get you out of here, hmm?’

But your plans were quickly interrupted by a voice. ‘I don’t think that’s a good idea, ma’am.’ 

❀❀❀

An average sea voyage from the Americas to England should take approximately 16 days, considering the weather corresponds with the sails of the ship. During this journey, passengers would most likely endure days upon days of heavy and tall waves bashing across the ship’s sides, and that is to be expected in favourable conditions.

As Lord Byrnwick and his eldest had boarded the ship headed to London, the sky had been bright blue, and it did not change far beyond that. There was, of course, a risk for the two of them to sail across the world as they did, them being head of the family and its heir. A journey such as this one can go awry in many ways, and if it were not for the dangers of seafaring, there were the Anglo-American tensions to consider. After all, the previous year's war was still fresh in everyone’s mind, and one could not be careful enough when entertaining both sides. Luckily for the Byrnwicks, they were not of the superstitious kind, and good fortune had always seemed to be in the family’s favour up until the very moment they stepped on the boat to return home, many years beyond that. 

Ever the convivial one, the most considerable success of the trip, according to Lord Byrnwick, was not the business or diplomatic aspects of their ventures but the social. The man immensely enjoyed meeting other like-minded spirits from across the pond, and there had been plenty of fine nights at gentleman’s clubs spent over fine spirits and betting games, discussing all sorts of topics and exchanging information on all subjects. Promises were made to keep in touch whilst arrangements were made for more future meetings. It was only the polite thing to do. 

But aside from acquaintances and business partners, an addition to the household had also been made. Of some sort, that is, for it seemed that the two had found a new groom in America.

Now, Gentle Reader, do not conclude of the worst, as the groom we speak of is not the sort one is meant to meet at an altar but the kind who spends his days tending the horses and carriages. The young man, Mr Munson, had been doing precisely that when the Byrnwick heir stumbled upon his conveyance services in town, in dire need of transport for his regular means, which had already been occupied by his father for the day. It was an encounter by utter chance but certainly one with greater consequences. 

Several days later, coincidentally, a letter from London had arrived. Five pages long, each written by a member of the family recounting their most notable memories of the week. The children spoke of the ton's gossip and anecdotes of what occurred at home. Mother, however, took it upon herself to write of more important matters regarding the household. Many topics had to be discussed, but in the middle of her letter, there was mention of the unfortunate passing of the family’s barn manager, Mr Falstipp. It was an unexpected death, leaving the entire house in shock as the man had been working for the family for longer than the children had been alive. But it also resulted in the question of what was to be done now? 

It was likely only because the interaction had been so fresh in his mind that Nicholas suggested finding a replacement for Mr Falstipp here in America. This was an unusual offer, as his father commented, especially since they would not leave for home until another few days, but that was to be resolved by having the footmen take care of the horses for the time being. Besides, Nicholas was sure his siblings would be more than happy to help with the chores. 

The next day, he returned to the public stables and immediately noted how much cleaner they seemed than any other in town. The horses also looked exceptionally well taken care of and content. 

Mr Munson had just been feeding a colt when Nicholas eagerly announced, ‘Mr Munson, may I offer you a proposition?’ 

This, to no surprise, startled the other man for various reasons. ‘Sir?’ 

‘This must be a peculiar request, but you see, as of recently, my family has found itself in need of a new stablehand and from what I have seen you do, you, sir, would be the perfect candidate.’ Nicholas had the smile of a man losing his sanity, but his words could not be more genuine. 

‘Your family—’ Munson blinked, ‘you mean in London.’

‘Yes, and I understand that this might be a problem, but trust me when I say that you will most certainly find England to your liking, Mr Munson.’

‘Please, call me Eddie.’ 

‘As you wish,’ Nicholas agreed. 

Eddie pondered over the offer for a short moment. It would have taken him no time to decide if it was not for what he was to leave behind, but he knew that his current employer would be able to find his replacement in no time, as jobs in town were hard to come by. 

But what must have been even more challenging to obtain was a ticket out of the wasteland he called home. For years, he had dreamt of an escape, never imagining it to be possible, and suddenly, here comes this stranger offering it to him on a silver platter. 

It would be terrifying to move so far away, he knew that, with many risks, but the further away he could manage to go from where he was now, the better. 

Eventually, after a minute of silence that left Nicholas restless and on the verge of embarrassment, Eddie smiled: ‘It would be my pleasure to work for you, sir.’ And he had meant that wholeheartedly. While it had only been a short few interactions that he had had with the man, the young Mr Byrnwick had already shown Eddie far more kindness than any of his prior employers, or any other man in his life, for a fact. Most importantly, the man knew nothing about Eddie’s past, which must have been the biggest selling point in the life-changing choice. 

‘Marvelous. You will not regret this, Eddie.’ Nicholas leaned in to shake his hand, only to realise that Eddie was still carrying the giant bucket of feed. ‘Well, we shall finalise everything on the boat, shall we?’ And so they did. 

A week later, Eddie found himself still in shock at his circumstances. He could not believe he was really to be leaving for England until the moment he set foot on the boat, and even once the sails had set and the American coast was nothing but a grim line on the horizon, the fact did not seem to settle in his mind just yet. 

Over the next 16 days, he had encountered the Byrnwicks only a handful of times. First, to meet Lord Byrnwick who, as head of the household, wanted a final say on the matter. A bit late, thought  Eddie, as the boat had long departed the harbour by then, but his ticket had already been paid for, and thus, he had little else to complain about. He had quickly made peace with the idea that he could make his new life across the ocean work no matter the circumstances. He had done it before, so what is one more homeless night under a new sky?

But the lord seemed all too happy to have found his staff replacement. Overall, the man was nothing like Eddie had expected a gentleman of English high society to be. From his previous experiences, the type often was rather conceited and arrogant, with a transparent opinion of anyone below their class. His new employer and his son, while undoubtedly lordly, had a modest nature about them. Quickly, Eddie had also gathered that the spontaneity with which Nicholas Byrnwick had called upon him for a job opportunity was not uncharacteristic of him, as the young man was rather energetic in his step and impulsive in his actions. 

But no matter how unassuming the men were, they did belong to a different rank of man and, therefore, stayed on the boat to the upper decks, engaging with the rest of their kind. 

The travel moved on slowly, but in the end, it was also a mere blink of an eye moment, and before he had realised it, Eddie had reached the shores of England. It was another day or two of travel to be done by horse. A carriage had been acquired for Nicholas and his father, but Eddie and the rest of the staff that travelled with the family for their adventure rode on horseback. No matter how much Eddie enjoyed the form of transportation, it was a tiring experience after several hours, but it also allowed him to meet the people he was to work with and, through that, those he would work for. 

‘So, what is the rest of the family like,’ he asked Mr Trowbridge, the lord’s valet. If there was anyone who could tell Eddie something, it would be this man. 

‘Well,’ Mr Trowbridge had a particularly nasal tone about his voice that especially came forward at the beginning of his sentences, ‘I do not believe there is much to tell. They are as any other family, really.’ 

‘My good man, you can hardly expect me to believe there is nothing worth telling about these people,’ Eddie laughed. ‘If it puts your mind at ease, I am only asking for the simplest facts—nothing to interest my fancy.’

The valet pondered over this for a moment. ‘Very well. You have, of course, met the Viscount and his eldest.’ He took a moment for Eddie to respond with a nod in agreement. He then took another moment to consider his following words. The longer he took, the more keen Eddie felt to suggest what to speak of. 

‘What about Lady Byrnwick?’

‘Lady Byrnwick is most amiable and has a very caring character, but you will not find her in the stables often unless she is searching for her children.’

‘Not fond of horses, is she?’

‘Rather the outside—-’ Trowbridge cleared his hair vigorously. ‘In the sense that the sun and pollen often leave her poorly. But the children…’ he punctuated his half-sentence with a heavy sigh. 

‘They are a handful?’ Eddie assumed. To this, Trowbridge searched for another description but found himself lacking the vocabulary, leading to a confirmation. 

‘I have worked for this family for nearly three decades, and I will assure you that each member is as proper a member of society as the next. While boisterous, they have been taught to be independent individuals.’ The valet's tone made Eddie consider how much of their good decorum was in gratitude for the man’s own intervention and guidance. 

‘At 27 years, Nicholas is the eldest, and the responsibilities of this role are one of the few aspects of his life which he takes seriously, I cannot put any doubt behind that.’ Indeed, whilst extremely impetuous, the heir’s son also understood the duties of his position and towards his family. 

‘Then there is Christopher. The boy has immense athletic abilities but not much beyond that. For a young man of his age of five and twenty, one would assume he would be able to compose himself with a bit more propriety, but it is very difficult for him. He is adventurous and rarely can sit still for an extended period of time, including his mouth. It is suggested that people be careful of what they say around the man.

‘The eldest daughter, Annabelle, married just before we had departed for America, thus is now the lady of her own house.’ Something in his tone suggested he was sad to see the young woman leave home. This possibly has to do with the fact that Miss Annabelle (Now known as Duchess Annabelle Ramsbury) was the most dutiful and respectful of the six children. ‘The marriage had been long overdue as she had just turned 22 on the day of the ceremony, but a love match was found nonetheless.’ The valet guffawed with pride. It was clear to Eddie that, while considering them a nuisance, the man cared deeply for the family he served.

‘I must admit, Trowbridge,’ Eddie chuckled in this horse’s trot pattern over the uneven paths. ‘When you began speaking of the family, I had imagined the children to be… well, children.’

‘How old are you, Munson?’ Trowbridge asked, somewhat bluntly. 

‘Twenty, sir.’ Perhaps closer to his next birthday than the last.

‘Ah, just the age of the second daughter then,’ he nodded in agreement. ‘She may perhaps be the most… rebellious of the kin. It is all in good spirit, as you must imagine, and I am sure the interest in such nonsense will dwindle as she matures. She is also the most fond of the family horses; thus, you will see her quite often, I expect. But as her sibling, she has mastered the care for the animals as well as the equipment.’ 

As he spoke of your skills, something about Trowbridge's expression communicated particular dismay to Eddie. ‘Is that bad? For a young woman to know how to carry herself around a horse?’ He, for one, certainly did not see a problem in it. On the contrary, it was an instrumental skill to develop for anyone. 

‘It is not exactly lady-like, is it?’ Trowbridge spoke as if that was the only relevant argument on the matter. Eddie had learned from a very young age that some opinions were better left unsaid, and seeing him as the senior in age and position, Eddie thought it unwise to argue with the valet on his first official day of employment. He instead simply nodded in understanding. Instead, he opted to continue the civil interrogation—

‘What of the youngest two? What are they like?’

‘Fitzwilliam is a dapper fellow. He is but seventeen, but very accomplished, though I cannot say he knows how to put his acquired skills to good use. He has ambitions that cannot be denied; it is just a question of whether these ambitions can ever be met. 

‘And lastly, we have Miss Marjorie. A darling girl, I assure you,’ Trowbridge stated. I can only suggest not letting her size fool you, Munson. She has managed to wrap her family around her little fingers the moment she learned to mumble a word, leaving her to cause quite the ruckus for the past eleven years.’ 

‘I do not see how that involves me, Sir,’ Eddie said. By this time, the sun had begun to set over the fields they passed, and soon, the company would break for their overnight travels at a nearby inn. 

‘It had come to my attention over the years that Mr Falstipp–the previous groom, that is— had been quite lenient on the children and their usage of the horses. This has caused a number of incidents that I would rather not see a repetition of.’

‘Understood.’ 

‘I am unaware of your er– American customs,’ the valet began his lecture, ‘but you must also know that here, ladies are not to ride unaccompanied—something that has been protested in the family to no avail, but it is simply the procedure. There must always be a chaperone nearby to supervise, whether that is a senior member of the family or an entrusted member of the household.’ 

‘I do not expect to have gained that trust just yet,’ Eddie said earnestly.

‘But let us hope you will.’ The smile Trowbridge gave Eddie was kind at first glance, but the movement of his eyes that inspected him told an entirely different story. He knew he still had much to learn about navigating himself around the kinds of people that were the Byrnwicks, even those who worked for them. The moment he set foot on English soil, he knew it would be challenging to fit in if he ever planned to do so. 

The truth is that he did not plan such a change. For you see, Dear Reader, Mr Eddie Munson was also a radical. He did not believe in adapting to society, which was visible in his entire being. One can also imagine the struggle he had to endure when given a uniform to wear. Frankly, the ensemble did not differ much from how the man dressed himself before, but the simple fact that he was told to wear this particular set of clothing upset him severely. 

On the first day after his arrival at Ridlington Park, he had managed to justify himself out of dressing in the required clothing by claiming that the trousers were a smidgen too tight. Without another size available, he was told to wear the clothes on his back until the new, fitted attire arrived.

But the clothes did not even begin to reach the problem of the horses he was meant to care for. 

Turned out, while he had been given all sorts of warnings against the family, what Eddie should have been preparing for was the beasts that homed the stables. The stubborn animals would not let him touch them, and any attempts were met with angry stares and stomping of the hooves. 

‘Easy, there,’ Eddie spoke as softly as he could, taking small steps in any direction that would not enrage the stallion whom he was currently attempting to feed. White Liquorice, a white Arabian, was undoubtedly an animal worthy of a viscount, and from the moment he had stepped into the Ridlington Park stables, Eddie knew that the Kentucky Saddlers and Quarter Horses he grew up with were no match for these and he would quickly have to learn to get on with them if he was to stay here. 

Yes, the first days were hard, but not even one week later, he had gotten used to the rhythm of operations. It helped that, working as the barn manager, he was the one in charge and mostly left alone. Mr Trowbridge had visited him to ensure he was adjusting to the new working conditions, which was kind, but besides that, Eddie rarely saw anyone but footmen requesting the carriage to be prepared for the family. 

That is until one afternoon when he heard the doors open and someone walking inside. He had been around the corner of the stables, cleaning some grooming tools. 

‘Oh, we can both use an escape, I see,’ he heard the intruder speak. It was soft and gentle, most likely referring to one of the horses. Immediately, Eddie was reminded of one of the conversations shared with Lord Byrnwick’s valet. He swiftly got up from his seat and immediately found the culprit. 

He watched you pet one of the horses—Barley Sugar, was it—-petting her in a way he had not yet managed to do confidently. ‘How about I get you out of here, hmm?’ These words triggered him to jump into action. 

‘I don’t think that’s a good idea, ma’am.’ He stepped forward, but his words startled you, causing you to turn around. As you did so, your foot got caught in an old set of bridles Eddie had still planned on detangling and putting away. The surprise coming with the unexpected presence of someone else, combined with the awkward position of your foot, led you to fall over with a shriek. 

Eddie cursed under his breath as he watched you huff on the ground. ‘Let me help you,’ he extended his hand to you, ‘and my apologies, it was not my intent to—’ 

‘Who are you?’ you said in a tone that could only be deemed skittish, if not directly fearful, but not enough to deny his offer to help you stand. Your reaction was validated as you had never met the man standing before you. You eyed him up and down, and the more details you noticed, the more you were sure that you had just stumbled upon a robbery, nay, a kidnapping. 

The man's presentation spoke for itself, truly. His long hair was dark and unkept, well over his shoulders. His clothes were nothing like the workers around your house were meant to dress like, making him stick out like a very sore thumb. The trousers were old and worn, and the shirt was loose over his upper body, revealing—oh god, was that a tattoo?

It was clear this is how you were to die.

‘Are you here to steal my horses?’ you blurted out before you could think. 

‘What?’ He blinked. ‘No, please, listen—’ but you did no such thing. Instead, you did the only thing a lady in distress could do. 

You screamed bloody murder. 

‘Help! Anyone! Help—’  you would have kept on going, shouting over his attempt at reason until he finally shut you up by placing his hand over your mouth, his other hand sturdily over your upper arm. The two of you stood there for a moment, chests both heaving in all forms of panic, listening for footsteps or any other presence, but the only sound was the soft breathing of the animals around you. 

‘I will let go now, miss,’ Eddie said slowly. Both your eyes were wide from the uncultivated situation that had just occurred. ‘And I will explain everything to you, just, please—and I beg you— do not scream.’ You nodded your head beneath his palm in agreement. Eddie counted to three as he stepped back and finally let go of you. Despite him never blocking your airways, you inhaled deeply. 

‘There is absolutely no reason to panic, ma’am.’ His accent was distant, one you had never had the pleasure of hearing before. His eyes, large and dark, locked you in, almost making you lose count of the lingering feeling of his hands on your body. He had given you a moment before he continued speaking, ensuring that you would not resume your screaming or make a run for it.

‘What is your reason of being here?’ You inquired. 

‘I work here. Have been, for the past week. I think it was your brother, in fact, that gave me the position. We met on his travels.’ 

Now, come to think of it, you remembered your family's conversation on the day your father and brother returned. There had been talk of new staff—a young man they had brought along with them from America as an official replacement for the late Mr Falstipp. But that did not explain his attire. 

‘You could be fired for breaking the dress code alone, you know. Not to mention for the, uhm, actions you had just performed.’ You commented.

‘Well, you can always report me, miss.’ Eddie, against all his better judgement, smiled. 

‘Maybe I should.’ Your heart was still pounding, and you felt so disoriented that even a simple smile made your head spin. ‘What is your name?’

‘Eddie.’

‘Well, Mr Eddie—’ you began, just to be quickly interrupted.

‘No, just Eddie.’ Eddie shook his head.

‘What do you mean? Do you have no family name?’ You had heard of men bringing in street urchins to work for them, but surely, this man was too old for such charity. And you could not imagine your brother to perform such acts of kindness anyway.

‘I do.’ His smile only widened in amusement at the conversation. ‘Eddie Munson.’

‘My, is it usual in America to introduce oneself like that?’ Never had you heard of a man introducing himself by only his first name, let alone a byname. 

‘It is usual to me,’ he quipped, ‘And it is more common than not introducing yourself at all.’ The way in which he looked up at you from under his lashes felt accusatory, but you could not find it within you to be upset at the critique, so you gave him your name instead. 

‘Pleasure to meet you, Miss Byrnwick.’ He gave you a small, polite bow that reminded you more of how children play Lord and Lady rather than a gentlemanly act. Next thing you knew, a smile was pulling at the corner of your lips, and a small giggle was ready to escape. 

For some reason, you hesitated to say your following words: ‘It is a pleasure, Mr Munson.’

‘Please, call me Eddie.’ While always respecting the titles of others, Eddie never saw himself as one to follow such formalities. 

‘That is most improper.’ You held back the urge to scoff. 

‘But I insist.’ There was something in the corner of his eye that you managed to catch a glimpse of—this spark that no sunlight or fire could match. It was pure mischief, a spirit of chaos. But still, to call a man you barely knew by his first name was simply not right. Your family may jest as they please about your rebelling attitude to primitive customs, but you had to admit that some things ought to be done in a proper manner. And this was certainly not it. 

However, Mr Munson saw it in another light but did not find enough of an interest in the subject enough to argue it further. Rather, he cleared his throat briefly and observed you for a moment. 

How silly you must look in your fancy dress! Your hair was done up to match, and your shoes were most likely covered in mud. There was also no doubt that he had overheard you talking to your horse about running away. You had good faith that he could connect the pieces to form the complete picture. 

A bird flew past a window, making you glance past Eddie’s shoulder in haste. 

‘I hope I am not keeping you from any other plans, miss?’ He finally asked. Could you be so bold as to admit that he was saving you from other commitments by conversing with you?

‘No, of course, not Mr Munson,’ you persisted. ‘I am simply cautious.’ Come to think of it, your screams must have been heard all around the grounds. If those who heard, in turn, had an ounce of common sense amongst them, they would have called for someone in the house. If that was the case, your mother would be here momentarily, and then it was back to the house for you. All you could do now was hide. 

‘May I ask what are you being cautious of?’ Eddie followed you with his eyes as you walked through the stables, looking for a hiding spot. 

‘If you must know, I am currently on the run,’ you stated while looking over a haystack in the far corner. 

‘Ah, so whilst you had accused me of being a criminal, it was you who had been committing the crimes then? Should I now scream for help?’

‘I’d rather you didn’t, ' you said, attempting to climb the hay to get past it. ‘I have already brought much too much attention to myself.’ Your foot slipped, making you tumble back down to the ground. The accident made you stop for a moment before attempting to climb again, looking over your shoulder at the man. ‘Are you not going to even try and stop me?’ 

‘Oh,’ it was as if he had awakened from a deep thought or had just realised that what you suggested was exactly what he ought to do. ‘Well, would you listen if I told you not to climb up there?’ 

You pondered his question for a short moment. ‘No, I highly doubt it.’ Thus, you resumed your climbing. As you did, you heard the shuffling of his feet behind you. The next time you slipped up, this time from a far higher distance, he had been in precisely the right place to catch you in his arms. 

‘I cannot assure you I will be able to catch you once more, so it is in good conscience that I suggest you stop, ma’am,’ he said as you got back to your feet. 

‘You are right,’ you admitted. Then you realised just how close the two of you stood and quickly occupied yourself by looking for another hiding place. That is when you noticed it. You had spent years in this stable and knew every inch of the space, yet… ‘Have you moved things around?’ You looked back at Eddie. 

‘Only a little. I’m afraid my predecessor did not have a flair for organisation,’ he explained.

‘That may be so, but I would prefer you would put things back as they were.’ 

‘Excuse me?’ Eddie could not help but laugh at the demand.

‘Your new floor plan has completely disoriented me, ' you admitted. ‘It is unbecoming.’

‘My apologies. I will be sure to put things back as they were, then.’ His laugh still echoed his words.

You had not expected him to actually agree to this request. ‘You will?’ But quickly, you regained your composure and tried to hide the surprise in your voice. ‘Very well, thank you. Then, since you have discarded all of my possible hiding locations, what do you suggest I should do?’ 

‘I suggest you run.’ But it was not Eddie who had answered you. 

‘Mother, ' you gasped. What was it, in God’s good name, with everyone sneaking up on you today? Lady Byrnwick stood at the threshold of the stables with her arms crossed. Her lips tightened into a thin line as she took a step inside. You prepared yourself for a disciplinary outburst, but instead, your mother focused on the man standing next to you. 

‘You must be Mr Munson.’ The kindness in her voice was laughable. The overcompensation of her kindness threw both you and Eddie off. 

‘Yes, Ma’am.’ You noticed that he bowed his head in a much more orderly fashion than he had done to you. 

‘I hope my daughter has not been too much of a nuisance.’ 

‘Not at all.’ Eddie politely replied. 

‘Good, good. Well, I can already see that my son did a good job in finding you,’ she stated as she looked around the retouched interior. ‘And I hope that you will grow to enjoy England.’

‘I’ve had nothing to complain of yet.’ Eddie proudly said with that smile of his, and for a moment, you thought to have caught his eyes on you for just a second. Your mother nodded along with his words in satisfaction, but this cheeriness dissipated as soon as she directed herself to you. 

‘Has your headache cleared, dear?’ Her eyes were spitting fire. 

‘Yes, mother.’ 

‘Then we will be on our way.’ She stepped aside, giving you room to walk outside. ‘Goodbye, Mr Munson.’ Eddie had become the unintentional victim of the venom that perferred your mother's words. 

He was polite enough to look away as you made your shameful walk through the aisle between the horses’ stalls, but you couldn’t help but look behind you one final time as you left and catch his favourable grin. What a peculiar man he was, indeed—one whose presence you immediately began to miss. 

Perhaps that was because of the company you were in at the time. 

‘Have you gone completely mad?’ Your mother scowled. ‘Mr Harrington has been waiting for well over half an hour.’

‘He is still here?’ You stopped in your tracks. This day could not have gone any worse. It seemed like everything you had been doing was working in your favour.

‘Yes, so you better come up with a clever excuse for your tardiness as I will not be embarrassed any longer. I swear, have you no shame?’

‘I am truly sorry mother, I had lost track of the time.’

‘Doing what exactly? What were you doing in the stables, exactly? Considering you had told me you were going out for some fresh air.’ Yes, the air around the horses was not exactly to be called “fresh.” 

Unfortunately, you had no satisfying answer to any of your mother’s questions. Come to it, you yourself were unsure what exactly had brought you there in the first place, not to mention what made you stay. It must have been a sense of child-like naivete to think you could hide from your problems the way you attempted. 

Problems that were coming closer as Mr Harrington walked towards you through the aisle of hyacinths that grew all around you in various colours. 

‘What is he doing here?’ you mumbled towards your mother.

‘Considering the lovely weather, I had offered for us to sit out in the gardens.’ Your mother spoke out loud. That is when you noticed the set table and chairs under a large parasol on the patio. 

‘I hope you do not mind. I took the initiative of taking a stroll in your absence.’ Mr Harrington spoke in a cadence that would have been new to you if not for the fact that you had spent the last hour in the presence of a very similar tone. 

‘Of course, not,’ your mother had regained her ability to smile. ‘May I introduce my daughter.’ And so she did. 

‘I am sorry to have kept you waiting, sir. I completely lost track of time.’ You apologised and were ready to offer your hand to Mr Harrington when you noticed how filthy your gloves had become. In a panic, you pushed both your hands behind your back, trying to distract the man with a wide grin.

‘The important thing is that we are all here now,’ he manoeuvred, which you could not help but agree with, then led you to the patio. 

The next hour went by faster than you had ever imagined it would. Mr Steve Harrington turned out to be not only a great conversationalist but a rather fascinating one at that. It was only a fault of your own that you were distracted for a larger part of the conversation. There was simply something about the man’s brown eyes that constantly reminded you of somewhere else. He was very charming and, abiding by your brother’s promises, had a great, though perhaps somewhat awkward, wit. It seemed that his confidence, once clearly overt, had been lowered, causing him to stumble over his words at times and laugh at his own mistakes in a deprecating manner, but never enough to make it a bother in your eyes. Truly, it was all rather endearing.

But you could not, for the life of you, figure out what exactly caused these fumblings in his character, as nothing seemed to be particularly wrong with the man. Though you did not see him as an academic or scholar of any sort, from the way he spoke, you could tell he was one of the more clever men you had the fortune of meeting. And his looks were certainly no topic of discussion either. He was tall and lean, with a wonderful smile and soft brown hair that apparently was more common than imagined, as were those dark eyes and the way he held you in his arms—

You took a sip of the cold water as Mr Harrington expressed his gratitude to your mother for the audience and made sure the message would be conveyed to Lord Byrnwick, too. You nodded and smiled along. Even when he bid you farewell and bowed his head, your mind was elsewhere. As if expecting something to emerge from behind the hyacinths, you could not help but glance in the Eastern direction of the gardens. 

‘See, it was not all that bad, was it?’ your mother immediately said, pulling you back to the patio. By then, Mr Harrington had excused himself and was crossing the patio to the exit from the grounds but had turned briefly for a final goodbye, which you met with a polite wave. 

‘No, I suppose you are right, mother.’ You had persevered against all odds. As you watched the gentleman leave, you felt quite content with the meeting—happy, some would even say. The only problem was that you could not make quite clear what, or rather, who brought on this particular mood.

Chapter 2

Thank you so much for reading!! I really do hope you enjoyed this chapter. Remember the best way to support writers is to reblog and share. I love to hear what people think of my stories so feel free to leave a comment or an ask or message.

[pumpkinpaix]

Chapter Spotlight 8:

"'Censorship Made It Better': Anti-Fans and Purity Culture in English-Language Chen Qing Ling Fandom" by Abby Springman

Describe your topic/chapter in one sentence/one meme/140 characters.

Rejoice! MDZS has been cancelled!

What drew you to this topic?

When I got into CQL fandom and started lurking on its outskirts on Twitter, I started getting this weird sense of déjà vu. There was this bizarre similarity between the arguments I was seeing about the aspects of CQL/MDZS and their fandoms being "problematic" from a progressive, social justice point of view and the demands for censorship in American libraries that conservative groups were (and still are) making at an alarmingly increasing rate. In an attempt to make sense of this, I fell down what ended up being a really long rabbit hole, and, well, here we are.

Was there anything you were surprised to discover while researching?

I was surprised by the wide variety of fannish backgrounds found amongst members of English-language CQL fandom! I'm not used to seeing so many different "areas" of fandom intersect over a single piece of media like this. Some folks are primarily into the live action movies and TV shows side of things, some are mostly in bandom, some (like me) are traditionally a part of the anime, manga, and gaming contingent, etc. I think that's fascinating, honestly.

Did researching/writing your chapter change how you saw the text, the fandom, or the media? How so?

I didn't use the block button on Tumblr or Twitter for anyone in the fandom while I was working on my chapter. It definitely changed how I saw fandom on those platforms—literally. It really highlighted how much power social media algorithms have over what kind of content is presented to us front and center.

If there’s one thing you hope the fandom takes away from your article, what would it be?

I'll be thrilled if it makes people think about "problematic" content in less black-and-white terms. They don't have to necessarily agree with my conclusions! But if my words make even one person stop and think more about context before posting a reactionary comment, then that would be great.

If you were isekai-ed into MDZS/CQL, what sect affiliation would you choose and why?

The Lan. My existing skills are most likely to be applicable there (see: the library), it seems easy to find some peace and quiet when you need it, there are bunnies, and Hanguang-jun is there.

Chaotic one-sentence pitch to get your friends into MDZS/CQL?

My elevator pitch for CQL has historically been, "It's the adaptation of a book about a gay necromancer, except they can't actually show the gay romance or the zombies on screen."

What is one (1) book/media you would recommend to a MDZS/CQL fan? Tell us about it.

Strange Tales from a Chinese Studio by Pu Songling. It's probably the most accessible collection of Chinese stories of the supernatural available in English. If MDZS/CQL was your first exposure to traditional Chinese cultural beliefs about ghosts, exorcisms, and the like, this is a great introduction to the less xianxia-specific aspects. If that isn't the case for you, I still highly recommend it on its own merits!

Character you keep getting in those "which MDZS/CQL character are you" quizzes?

Wen Ning

Anything to say to potential readers of the collection?

Thank you, and I'm sorry—no, that's a joke. More seriously, I really am thankful for anyone interested in the collection. It's the product of years of hard work by many people, and I'm sure there's an interesting chapter in there for everyone.

(FAQ) (all posts on Catching Chen Qing Ling)

[fuwbuki]

hi! i wanted to know if your depictions of couthon standing with mobility aids (cane, crutches) are historically accurate? i've always thought that he was fully paralysed by adulthood. lmk, please! :3

Hello!

(Firstly, if you see some grammatical errors I apologize, English is my second language)

A lot of records and books about Couthon are just in French so I might be missing some info from those (since i can't speak french)

As far as my knowledge on Couthon goes, it´s surprisingly hard to point out when exactly he started using the wheelchair. (Most sources don´t even agree on his medical condition that left him paralyzed although meningitis comes up a lot). Couthon blamed his paralysis on the frequent sexual experiences of his youth. Some sources say he was hiding behind a girl’s window as the father of the girl caught the pair. Others that, he spent the entire night hiding in cold water up to his neck. His family had apparently denied this claim and offer a different story.

„As the revolution approached, Couthon was fast becoming a cripple, so that by 1793 he was unable to walk. Doctors in 1792 gave a diagnosis of meningitis, in which modern consultants, reexamining the evidence, have concurred. Couthon told his doctors that from an early age he had freely indulged in sexual proclivities. He thought his paralysis might be due to such excesses. He lost the use of one leg shortly after an amorous adventure, in which, surprised by the girl´s father, he caught a severe chill while hiding outside her window. He took mineral baths and electric treatments, but the trouble grew worse, spreading into the other leg. In 1793 he was happily married, but so helpless that he had to be carried from place to place“

R.R. Palmer- Twelve who ruled, page 13-14

Disturbed by a jealous husband whilst he was engaged in a gallant escapade, he had passed an entire night in a cesspool up to his neck in water. He escaped at dawn, cured of a love of adventure, but crippled for life.

Lenotre G. Romances of the French revolution

On the other hand, Couthon's family, denying this version, stated that his disability appeared after a very hot prolonged bath at a French spa where he had sought to relieve his pains. This would rather point to meningitis or myelitis, of viral, bacterial, syphilitic or tubercular origin; or to multiple sclerosis. He may also have suffered from a combination of trauma and disease.

This post talks more about Couthons early illnesses

The illness seems to start as early as 1782 but progressing slowly with the breaking point in 1792/93

In 1787, before he was paralyzed, he had married Marie Brunel

Lenotre G. Romances of the French revolution, page 178

Sources seem to agree that while he may have had some pains, he was still capable of walking by the time he married Mary Brunet in 1787 when he was 32 years old. But even here are some disagreements, although my findings lead me to believe that describing Couthon completely paralyzed and fully using his wheelchair before the year 1792 is rare.

Couthon was 32 when he married a childhood friend in 1787 and his first son was born in that same year. It appears that he started having pains around that time. A year or two later his legs became paralysed. His second son was born at least 1 year later. Couthon required to be carried or to use a wheelchair. He suffered from weakness, pain, and had a gibbous deformity. Despite his worsening condition Couthon's sexual and reproductive functions remained unimpaired. His disability did not prevent him from work, political activity, travels and family life to the end.

(May 1792)

„…and a new friend Georges Couthon, confined to a wheelchair, probably as a result of meningitis, and with whom Robespierre frequently worked in the evenings in his room in the Duplays house“

Peter McPhee, Robespierre a revolutionary life, page 119

He himself believed that he could walk some distances with crutches or cane. However, it’s interesting to note that he doesn’t say anything about a wheelchair in the year 1792 and instead talks about being carried. I think even though social norms were changing at that time and the revolution wanted the public to be enlightened, I don´t think any of the options were optimal for Couthon as there must have been a lot of ableism targeted towards him. If he chose the wheelchair he would be seen as not physically fit enough to lead the revolution. If he chose to be carried it would seem like he was making himself superior (by having someone carrying him) and again not physically fit enough AND relying on other people to help him? But out of the two of these wheelchair sounds like more of a comfortable option so why would he not choose it if it would be available to him in 1792?

This residence, he wrote in October 1791, “will be very convenient for me, inasmuch as it is quite near the Assembly, and will enable me to walk there.” “With the aid of a stick or two crutches,” he could still walk at that time. But soon his sufferings increased, and his legs refused to carry him any longer. “When my pains allow me to go to the Convention,” he recorded in May 1792, “I am obliged to have myself carried right into the sanctuary.”

Lenotre G. Romances of the French revolution

Georges Couthon suffered joint problems from childhood, however it wasn't until 1782 that his condition significantly worsened, necessitating the use of a cane by 1791 and complete reliance on a wheelchair by 1793

Geoffrey Brunn, "The Evolution of a Terrorist: Georges Auguste Couthon.

The wheelchair itself wasn’t apparently that hard to operate and didn’t require much of Couthons strength

There you have a solution of the problem – Couthon propelled himself in this arm-chair upholstered in lemon colored velvet, now very much faded. He set it in motion by means of two cranks fitted to the arms, a gearing arrangement transmitting movement to the wheels. Without being as light as a tricycle, the machine which is still intact, can attain, with little effort, a fairly high speed. We can now imagine the inform Couthon-suffering from extremely violent headache, shaken by nausea and almost perpetual hiccoughs, enervated by frequent baths, fed almost exclusively on veal-broth, prostrated by pain and undermined by caries- being placed in his mechanical arm-chair, and, by a prodigious effort of his will, his hands grasping the cranks like those of two coffee-mills, setting off alone in the direction of the Convention, outdistancing able-bodied men and maneuvering among the traffic in the Rue Saint-Honoré and over the large paving-stones of the Carrousel. It must indeed have been a terrible sight to witness this wreck of a man rolling along with the noise of a rattle, his arms in perpetual horizontal rotary movement, his body bent forward, and his lifeless legs covered with wraps, perspiring and shouting „Look out there! “

Lenotre G. Romances of the French revolution, page 174

Some have said that he was carried in a back basket, whilst others have supposed that he travelled on a man’s back, and a few reports, when mentioning Couthon name do, in fact, speak of „his gendarme“ in such a way as to lead one to believe that this soldier was the cripples vehicle.

Lenotre G. Romances of the French revolution, page 173

The mentions of his almost exclusive wheelchair use seem to come around the year 1793. But it seems he could still stand up.

(On june 2 1793)

Then Georges Couthon rose to speak, physically a broken man, paralytic and ailing, who propelled himself through noisy crowds in a wheelchair, and had to be bodily carried where his wheelchair would not go.

R.R. Palmer- Twelve who ruled page 32

Couthon hobbled to the rostrum (30 brumaire 1793)

R.R. Palmer- Twelve who ruled page 147

Although he was by then confined to a wheelchair, he was sent on several important missions to the French provinces…In August 1793, he was sent to supervise the military operations against the rebellious city of Lyons, which not only proves his strong political status at the time, but also shows that his disability was not considered to be an obstacle by himself or by those surrounding him

Famously, on 26th October (1793) Couthon had himself carried "in an armchair" around the Place de Bellecour where he struck the houses with a silver hammer to symbolise their imminent demolition

The description on the plaque at Carnavalet Museum (where the wheelchair is on display) just tells us who Couthon was and that he used it. But not when he started using it. We do know that it was given to him from Versailles.

No relie presents a character of more absolute authencity than this bath-chair. It originally came from the Chateau de Versailles, where it was used by the „wife of Charles Philip Capet“- otherwise known as the Comtesse d´Artois: and it was lent to Couthon by the administrators of the national furniture warehouse.

Lenotre G. Romances of the french revolution, page 180

Now comes the year 1794 and Thermidor. By this time Couthon is completely relying on the wheelchair and others to transport him. However, there are still questions about where he could use it since CPS offices were blocked to him by a flight of stairs as was Robespierre’s room at Duplays that he often visited. So, they had to carry him up the stairs. Did they also take the chair with them? At this point it’s kind of nitpicking, but it’s noteworthy to talk about because of Robespierre’s (and Couthons) arrest.

But let’s start at the Convention on Thermidor. He most definitely sat in it while Robespierre was trying to make his speech.

Leaving Couthon in his wheelchair trailing behind, the group rushes out down the corridors towards the Convention Hall.

Colin Jones, The fall of Robespierre, 24 hours in revolutionary Paris, page 187

„Couthon“ said Fréron „is a tiger thirsting for the blood of the national representation… He wanted to make of our corpses so many steps to mount the throne. „Oh yes, I wanted to get a throne“ answered Couthon wryly looking at his withered legs.

R.R. Palmer- Twelve who ruled page 377-378

Maximilien Robespierre, Augustin Robespierre, Saint Just, Couthon and Le Bas are arrested and taken to different prisons. All of them are slowly one by one busted out of these prisons and taken to Maison Commune. (If I remember correctly Couthon was one of the last ones to arrive) Couthon was carried there.

It must be shortly after this chat that Cn. Paris perks up, to witness and join the applause for Couthon who is being carried into the Council chambre by one of his duty gendarmes.

Colin Jones, The fall of Robespierre, 24 hours in revolutionary Paris, page 368-369

Dulac was able to inveigle himself into the Maison Commune and then follow Couthon and his gendarme escort into the council chambre where he found both Robespierre and Le Bas present.

Colin Jones, The fall of Robespierre, 24 hours in revolutionary Paris, page 370

Jones also refers to them as „trusted gendamre carriers“ and the book Romances of the French revolution mentions an official report where two of these gendarme carriers are named Muron and Javoir.

On arriving he was embraced by Robespierre,… who also took the gendarme´s hand, saying to him: Worthy gendarme, I have ever loved and esteemed your body. Get to the door and continue to incense the people against the factionists. The advice was doubtless good, but Robespierre thereby did Couthon a bad turn, for, deprived of his bearer, he was at the mercy of the first comer

Lenotre G. Romances of the French revolution, page 177

Now most accounts say that Couthon fell down the stairs and injured himself in the head. The question is whether he had the wheelchair with him. Significant amount of the French revolution movies do show Couthon in his wheelchair in the Maison Commune, but it’s not very likely. Taking the wheelchair would slow down the people that were carrying Couthon to the Maison Commune from prison and that’s not very ideal when you can be arrested at any corner. Moreover, why would the Convention let Couthon keep his wheelchair when they sent him to prison? He most certainly won’t need it there.

He did indeed fell down those stairs. But without the wheelchair.

The helpless Couthon, trying to move, plunged down a staircase and injured himself in the head.

R.R. Palmer- Twelve who ruled page 379

Couthon was found at the bottom of a staircase with blood streaming from a headwound. Had he fallen, been pushed, or were he and his gendarme carrier merely seeking a way out?

Colin Jones, The fall of Robespierre, 24 hours in revolutionary Paris, page 383

Ochrnutý Couthon se zřejmě vyplazil ze zasedací místnosti až na schodiště, kde sjel po zábradlí dolů. Tam ho útočníci objevili, paralyzovaného až po nějaké době.

Translation: The paralyzed Couthon apparently crawled out of the meeting room to the staircase, where he slid down the railing. There, his attackers discovered him, paralyzed, sometime later.

Vladimír Vokál, Saint-Just, krvavý démon Francouzské revoluce, page 256

Couthon, without weapons or assistance, and incapable of even rising from the seat on which he had been placed, let himself slide to the floor, and, using his hands as crutches, succeeded in dragging himself under a table. Someone, however, discovered him in his hiding-place, and he was pitched like a bundle on to the landing at the very edge of the topmost step. A movement which he made caused him to roll to the bottom of the stone staircase and he was found the next morning, with a deep cut in his forehead, stretched in a small back courtyard to which he had crept. Motionless and his face pressed to the wall, he „feigned death“, but when the men shook him to make him stand up he tried to stab himself with a pen-knife which he held open in his hand.

Lenotre G. Romances of the French revolution, page 177

Do we really envisage him trundling to the Convention?  In the Tuileries both the hall of the Convention and the notorious green room where the Committee of Public Safety met had inconvenient flights of steps.  Historians unravelling the confused events of 9th/10th Thermidor often have Couthon toppling or throwing himself from his wheelchair down the steps of the Hôtel de Ville at the same time as Robespierre's suicide attempt, but the idea that he was moved around Paris in this contraption seems improbable.  If it was really with him at the end, how come it turned up eventually not in the official depository but among the family furniture?

His execution overall summarizes the stage of his condition towards the end of his life.

Couthon died the first, under circumstances of particular ghastliness, for the executioner took fifteen minutes to force the twisted body on to the straight plank of the guillotine, during which the screams of the tortured man mingled with the frenzied howls of the audience.

R.R. Palmer- Twelve who ruled page 381

So, in conclusion I think that up until 1791 he was using a cane or crutches. In 1792 he had himself carried but could still stand up for short periods of time and walk some distance with canes and crutches. By 1793 he started using the wheelchair but could still stand up. By 1794 he was completely paralyzed and was using his wheelchair when the surroundings allowed him to, or he had to be carried by someone.

I tried to find some paintings or engravings of Couthon in the wheelchair made during this life but every single one I found was made after his death + Couthon doesn't have that many paintings or engravings compared to Robespierre or Saint Just. Some of his paintings were burned after his death.

I reccomend looking at this account for more info about Couthon:

So because of this historical uncertainty/confusion I draw him with crutches, canes and the wheelchair : )

If I missed something or said something wrong please say so in the comments. I love learning about Couthon and will take every piece of info I can.

[starshideurfics]

A Mother’s Love - Part Six

part one… part five

omegaverse, steddie, wayne x benny, steve with powers, teenage violence, cw: sexual harassment

Steve cuts sixth period to find Eddie after he’s suspended. It’s easy enough, he went home before his evening shift at Benny’s, and Steve doesn’t knock at the Munsons’ anymore.

Eddie’s in his room, practicing chord progressions on his acoustic guitar, when Steve bursts in. “You can’t tell Wayne.”

“What are you talking about? Did you get suspended, too?”

“No, Eddie, you can’t tell Wayne what all the alphas like Shel-”

“Steve, I’d have hit him for saying what he said about any omega! Shelter’s a knothead, he needed taking down a peg or two.” Eddie sets aside his guitar, getting up because Steve’s pacing is freaking him out.

“You just can’t tell Wayne, okay? Because he’ll tell Mama, and then they both tell my mom, and then I’m going to St. Agnes for the rest of high school!” Steve is shaking when he finishes, and Eddie’s afraid he’s going to pass out.

He pulls Steve into his chest, hand on the nape of his neck, waits for Steve to relax against him. “Would that be so bad? You aren’t stronger for putting up with it, Steve, and you shouldn’t have to. No one has the right to talk to you that way.”

“I don’t want to go to Catholic school, I wanna stay with you…and Ronnie and Jeff and everyone. I don’t wanna make new friends…”

“We’d still be friends, Stevie.”

“You know what I mean.”

“And you’d totally pull off the uniform.”

“Shut up!”

“But I won’t tell Wayne or Benny any of it. Promise.”

“Thank you.”

❤️❤️❤️

In the new year, the comments get worse. Unless Steve is close enough to another omega. The goal is to get under Steve’s skin, after all, not scare away every omega at school. Even with his barriers up, Steve is good at reading people; it’s easy to be friendly with Tammy or Vickie so he has someone to walk with to his next class.

Soon enough, the novelty wears off. The alpha jocks find other ways to spend their time.

Especially since Eddie learned the right lessons from his suspension: Don’t fight at school. Plan fights at school. Fight at the old picnic area past the football field. Win every time because Al fought dirty.

Protect your pack.

❤️❤️❤️

For Steve’s sixteenth birthday, his parents get him a car. Benny gives him a locket with an emergency scent token in it, a little piece of Mama to always have. He throws Steve’s party at the diner, too—burgers and milkshakes and a bunch of nerds talking excitedly over each other. It’s the perfect party.

Most of Steve’s friends get him cassettes or books, including Eddie. Steve blushes as he unwraps the historical romance novel, but it’s exactly the kind of book he loves: Medieval omega princess being saved from an arranged marriage. Inside, Eddie’s written, “Keep your window open.”

Steve narrows his eyes at Eddie, who just winks in return.

Of course, Steve leaves his bedroom window open that night, and Eddie pokes his head inside just before midnight. “Rest of your present’s out here, birthday boy.”

“On the roof?”

“Yes, I don’t want your mothers to kill me, now get out here!”

Steve climbs out of his window, always willing to do what his best friend asks. “Eddie, what the hell are you talking abo-”

Eddie’s got a joint between his lips, lighter held up to the end.

All three of Steve’s parents have lectured him about not using any mind-altering substances. Mom and Mama are worried about how it will affect his powers, unsure what lowering his inhibitions would do to his barriers. Dad is too straight-laced, believing the only acceptable vice in the world is two fingers of Glen Livet after work.

So, Steve’s mind has remained suitably unaltered. “Eddie…” He’s not sure this is a good idea. Not now when he’s already tired, his limits pushed by the excitement of the day.

“You deserve to relax, Stevie. For once.” He takes a drag, releases it slowly. “And it’s just me. You’ve had me in your head plenty, so it’ll be fine.” He holds up two fingers like a boy scout, joint between them. “I promise, anything goes wrong, I’ll take care of it. Of you.”

Steve shivers, even though it isn’t cold.

“If Mama finds out, I’m telling him you peer-pressured me,” Steve quips, taking the joint between his thumb and forefinger, and brings it to his mouth.

He chokes immediately, eyes watering. Eddie chuckles as he takes the joint back. “Sorry, shoulda expected that.” He takes another drag, tells Steve to sit down. “It’s fine, we’ll shotgun it. Take the edge off.”

Easy as anything, Eddie grabs Steve’s chin with his free hand, tilts his head, and waits for him to open his mouth. Steve breathes in as Eddie breathes out, the smoke so much easier to handle coming from his best friend’s lungs.

He’s not sure how hard the smoke is hitting him and how much is the residual of feeling Eddie’s high, but it’s warm. Soupy.

Safe, because it’s Eddie next to him.

They lay back on the roof, looking up at the stars, talking quietly, the joint long gone.

Steve still feels warm when he falls asleep that night, alone in his bed with the memory of fingers on his chin.

❤️❤️❤️

Marsha cuts back her hours at the VA Hospital the summer before Steve’s junior year. She doesn’t need the money, and she wants to travel with Richard more, pick up some new hobbies. Steve can get himself to and from school, and Benny’s around if he needs absolutely anything, so it’s easy enough to start the transition, instead of waiting until Steve graduates.

She loves her son and the life she has now, but Marsha always thought there would be more to it than Hawkins can offer. There are still things she wants to do—things she /needs/ to do.

And Steve is safer in Hawkins anyway.

❤️❤️❤️

There’s a new, blue Camaro roaring around town at the end of the summer. Eddie hates it on principle, for how loud the asshole is, revving his engine on quiet streets for no reason. Particularly down his own street around 10AM when Wayne has barely been asleep an hour after getting home from third shift.

But he doesn’t see the owner of the Camaro until the Saturday before school starts. He’s at the arcade with Jeff and Doug—and unofficially keeping an eye on Dustin and his friends for Steve—and he’s stepped out front for a smoke and a minute away from the noise. The Camaro rips into the parking lot, stopping just long enough for a red-headed girl about Dustin’s age to get out of the passenger side.

She turns to slam the car door, when the driver growls, “Be out here at 3 sharp, shithead, or you can find your own way home.”

“Whatever,” the girl growls back, slamming the door snd flipping him off as he peels out of the lot. Then she takes a breath, relaxes her shoulders, and strides right past Eddie into the arcade.

Eddie hates Camaro-Guy even more.

❤️❤️❤️

He officially meets Billy Hargrove on Tuesday, the alpha the talk of Hawkins High, plenty of omegas gushing over his car and his hair and his tight jeans.

Eddie keeps his mouth shut, and hopes interest will die down quickly, that everything will return to normal. Too bad Billy is in his Gym class, middle-rung alphas and betas flocking to the new boy and his easy, Californian slouch. They practically trip over themselves to get his attention, answering his questions, offering what they can to be seen as valuable.

Talk quickly turns to omegas, to the easy bets like Becky and Danny P. To the cheerleaders who come with added status. To younger siblings who are off limits.

Hargrove laughs and asks, “What about… Harrington? He’s in my math class, ass should be fun to watch while he’s bouncing on my—”

Eddie leaves before he does something stupid. He wanted an excuse to skip Gym anyway.

Not that he escapes Billy long, the other alpha turning up on the smoking patio between periods and smirking at him. “Word on the street is you’re Steve Harrington’s guard dog,” he says with a condescending smirk.

“I look out for my friends.”

“Alphas and omegas aren’t meant to be friends.”

“Didn’t ask for your dumbass opinion,” Eddie says, artificially calm as he stubs out his cigarette, “Save it for the mindless army of jocks you’re amassing. And if you enjoy having all your teeth in your head, you’ll leave Steve Harrington alone.

❤️❤️❤️

Steve hates Algebra II. He’s not even bad at math, he likes solving equations, not so much showing his work, but he’s doing fine in the class. He has a high B; he’s pretty sure he can get it up to an A- if he does well on the midterm.

No, he hates Algebra II because of the little pack of alphas in the back corner, the one that has coalesced around Billy Hargrove. Tommy asks him every Friday if he has plans, tells him hot omegas should be out at parties. “How are you gonna find a proper alpha if you don’t go looking, Steve?” he’ll tack on at the end, little shit-eating grin on his face.

“Yeah, Steve,” Billy will add, “Come out, let me show you a good time.” His scent always spikes, cloying musk and pine tar, hand at his belt buckle to draw attention to the bulge of his cock.

Every time, Steve says, “Can’t, I have plans,” as he gathers his things and flees to his English class. Tommy laughs as he goes, and Steve can feel their eyes on him. Just like he can feel Billy’s stare from the back of the classroom all period. He’s paranoid about his barriers falling at school now, for fear of Billy’s wants in his head.

And he doesn’t have Tammy or Vickie as a buffer now; Billy is new and hot and they want his attention. They agree that Steve needs to get out more, giggle and tell him to come to the party at Tina’s, then whisper behind his back that once Billy fucks him and finds out what a boring virgin he is, he’ll get it out of his system. Move on to an omega who’s actually fun.

At least it’s just Algebra II. He doesn’t have any other classes with Billy. No one bothers whispering about Steve when Billy isn’t there to impress.

It’s fine. He’s handling it.

Until Billy changes things up after Halloween. He gets too close, traps Steve at his desk as he looms over him. “C’mon, Stevie, doesn’t have to be a party. Let me take you to the quarry, show you a good time,” Billy purrs. “Just you, me, and-”

“Hey, Steve, you said you wanted to borrow my notes,” Nancy Wheeler interrupts, placing her notebook on top of his. She’s a sophomore, skipped ahead a year in math, the petite alpha usually quiet. But she sits at the front of the room, like Steve, so she’s had a front row seat to the entire saga of Billy bothering him.

“Yeah, thanks,” Steve returns brightly, like he’s been expecting her. “Study date this weekend?”

“I’m free on Sunday.”

“Cool, maybe we could eat first?” Steve offers, making it more of a date. Nancy may be an alpha, but she’s safe. Steve doubts she’d really make a move on him, and it sucks, but having a date with a different alpha seems like the best way to get Billy to leave him alone.

Steve picks Nancy up on Sunday afternoon, and they go to Benny’s for their study date. Nancy brings actual flash cards and they quiz each other, before going over their homework. They talk, too. Get to know each other. Steve realizes that Nancy’s little brother is one of Dustin’s friends, that her house wasn’t just familiar because it was down the street from the Sinclairs. She’s smart and funny, and Steve has a really good time with her.

Benny must pick up on it, since he winks at Steve when he brings them a piece of strawberry-rhubarb pie—Steve’s favorite—and leaves it with a gentle, “On the house.” Steve blushes, admits Benny is family when Nancy asks.

Nancy blushes too and pushes her hair back before picking up one of the forks. Their banter gets flirty as they share the pie, and Nancy’s hand ends up on Steve’s knee, small and warm. He likes the feeling, likes being touched so gently. Likes the intent behind it. But when she leans in to kiss him, Steve turns at the last second. He can’t take the risk. Her lips are soft against his cheek, and he whispers, “Sorry… I’m just-”

“It’s okay,” Nancy hurries to say. “No need to apologize.”

“I like you, Nance, I do! But I… It’s hard to-”

“I get it! There’s no rush, for any of this.” Her hand is still on Steve’s knee. “Either way, this was nice. Maybe we do it again next week?”

“Yeah, it’s a date.”

Steve drops Nancy off, then heads home, still over-thinking the almost-kiss. Touching someone like that, his own feelings running high, he can’t help but think his barriers will fall, that he’ll get caught in a loop, made all the worse by their pheromones. He’ll lose control, and with sex in the mix… He can’t risk it. He got that talk from his mom, too, how it’s hard enough to make smart decisions about sex without the added bonus of feeling everything his partner feels.

But he’s tired of not knowing. He’s got his romance novels, all those big feelings, love and desire rushing through him, inviting his hand into his panties while he reads about “throbbing members” and “heaving bosoms” and “molten pleasure filling Eliza’s quivering sex.”

It’s all too much, and he needs someone he trusts.

He needs his best friend.

Steve picks up the phone, dials without thinking. “Eddie, can you come over? Yeah, right now—See you soon!”

❤️❤️❤️

Steve may barge into Eddie’s house without knocking—he has a key—but Eddie doesn’t. He’s honestly a bit scared of Mr. Harrington still, and he doesn’t want to take the risk that he’s home. So, he knocks.

“Hey! I need…” Steve’s brightness when he opens the door fades quickly. Eddie has a fresh shiner over his left eye. “Eddie! What the hell happened?” Steve grabs his face, pulls him close to inspect the injury, and rushes to apologize when Eddie hisses at the pain of being manhandled. “Sorry! Sorry! Eddie, god…” His touch gentles, just ghosting over the red-purple bruise. “Who?”

Steve is pretty sure he knows the answer.

“It’s nothing, Stevie. Wrong place, wrong time.” Eddie leans back, wincing at his own movement.

“Then tell me what happened.” Stepping back, Steve’s hands go to his hips, waiting for Eddie to come inside.

“Steve, please, just drop it.”

“You said you we’re going to fight over this any-”

“That was last year, Steve! I thought it all stopped! And then that asshole Hargrove-”

“You fought Billy! Eddie, I’m handling it! He isn’t worth-”

“He’s lucky I didn’t kill him!” Eddie’s growling by the end, slamming the door behind him to punctuate his statement. Steve freezes, and Eddie’s volume drops. “He was running his mouth about you and Wheeler, how he’d show you what a real alpha can do with a knot.”

“Eddie…”

“He got a couple lucky hits, Hargrove is better with his fists than Dan Shelter, but my eye looks worse than it is. And Hargrove went down hard. Hopefully he’s learned his lesson.” Eddie hunches his shoulders. “I didn’t come here to talk about Hargrove, Stevie. You wanted to hang out?”

“Can I get some ice for your eye first?”

“That’d be great,” Eddie murmurs, following Steve to the kitchen, gratefully accepting the tea towel-wrapped ice pack and holding it to his brow.

Steve takes them to the living room, sits Eddie down on the couch, and waits. He feels like such an asshole now. He’s been trying to keep Eddie safe by not saying anything, and it clearly didn’t matter. They can’t hide from the assholes at school, not really, and for everything Steve’s heard, it sounds like Eddie’s been around for worse.

“So… You and Nancy Wheeler,” Eddie finally says. It isn’t a question, just a statement.

Steve shifts in his seat, folds his right leg underneath him. “She was doing me a favor, getting Billy to back off. We had fun and… She would have kissed me if I let her.”

Eddie’s blinks at him owlishly. “If you let her…”

“I can’t just kiss someone! You know I can’t!”

“Do you wanna kiss Wheeler?”

“I did.” Steve feels too warm, his mouth suddenly dry. “In the moment, I did.” He swallows hard, feeling naked under Eddie’s gaze. Eddie who knows him better than anyone. Eddie who would do /anything/ for him.

“Did?” Eddie asks so softly. “Not do?”

Steve leans forward, leans closer, reaching up to cover Eddie’s hand to pull back the ice pack. “Kiss me, Eddie,” he whispers, “Please.”

Eddie shakes his head. “No, Steve, you can’t ask me for that.” He looks like Steve feels: about to cry.

“Eddie-”

“You’re my best friend, Steve. I love you. But I can’t be your… Kissing experiment.”

“No, Eddie! You aren’t- It’s not!” He pinches the bridge of his nose and takes a deep breath. “I was scared to kiss Nancy, but it isn’t just that. I don’t want to kiss Nancy Wheeler.” He looks up, and gasps at the intensity in Eddie’s dark eyes. “I want to kiss you, Eddie. Only you.”

Dropping the ice pack, Eddie leans in and holds Steve’s face in both his hands. “There’s no going back from this, Stevie. If we do this, I don’t think-”

“Good.” Steve closes the distance then, brings their lips together, and melts into the feeling. They’re slow to build momentum, more breathing one another’s air and pressing mouths together than anything else, until Eddie licks at Steve’s lower lip. That lights a fire in Steve’s chest, and he crawls into Eddie’s lap, straddling him, tries to climb inside him with every movement of his lips and hands and hips.

Steve’s nose presses into Eddie’s black eye in his enthusiasm, and Eddie hisses, pulls back. “Sorry,” Steve murmurs, wincing in sympathy.

“Worth it,” Eddie says with a smile, pulling Steve back down to him.

part seven

[kestrel-of-herran]

my lady jane fans, i implore you to add the artful dodger to your watchlist

both are based on a previous work, with a twist: while my lady jane remixes both tudor history and the book of the same name, the artful dodger takes its titular character from charles dickens' oliver twist, sends him off to 1850s australia, and makes him a gifted surgeon for a story that switches seamlessly between medicine, heist, romance, and discussions of class inequalities in a british colony

both feature noble heroines who think progressively: lady belle is determined to become the first female surgeon in australia, and as the governor's daughter, she might just achieve her goal, if she can get one irritable surgeon/thief to teach her everything he knows. when she's not reading up on the heart's inner workings (foreshadowing warning) or deciphering notes for a dangerous surgery, she can be found throwing engagement gifts on her unwanted suitor's heads

both male leads are loveable rogues: jack dawkins will sneak into your heart within the first ten minutes of the show, as a gifted surgeon desperate to outrun his criminal past so he can keep helping people (unless his beloved is mad at him, in which case he's opening the next episode with the most outrageous heist you've ever seen)

historical scenes are set to modern rock music in both shows, and as a bonus, an important romantic element i can't reveal for spoilery reasons is woven in jack's theme in a way that will steal your breath when you get to its reveal

bickering to partners to lovers: i can't praise the romance in this show enough, from the punchy banter (jack: "if i die because of you, i'll haunt your every waking moment" / belle: "just shut up and ether the patient"), the amazing eye-contact, respectful work partnership, the tenderest physical touch (rubbing salve into a thigh wound? yes. forehead touching? absolutely) and a love confession for the history books

and don't even get me started on the insane acting because i need the consideration of every award show in existence, and at least two more seasons please and thank you

if all this sounds up your alley, give this wonderful show a shot!

[mermaidsirennikita]

Goodreads review pet peeves:

--using gifs

--using photos of people you imagine as the leads (which are always like, 10 years out of date, or like, Victoria's Secret Angels for the girl next door heroine, Henry Cavill, Henry Cavill, and Henry Cavill, especially when the hero is described as: scarred, kinda ugly, GIANT, blond, brutish, none of which describes Henry Cavill)

--"I love a man in uniform" okay blue lives matter

--"I loved this book.... but the heroine was SUCH a bitch, he deserved better!!!" [heroine had an active role in the plot, basically]

--"it just bothered me that he used violence against her" [consensual spanking]

--"I just wish authors would keep their pOLITICS out of MY BOOKS" [hero or heroine expressed regard for basic human rights]

--"I miss accurate historicals" [there was one (1) person of color who may or may not be a lead and wasn't suffering, OR the heroine is not a virgin and is not a widow]

[albywritesfiction]

After The End

Premise 

Your former fiancé and heir apparent of the Aurelian Kingdom, Prince Ædan, has married the love of his life, the fair Saintess Helene. As the nation celebrates their union, you are left alone to pick up the pieces of your broken heart... until you receive two letters. One is an invitation to the office of Prince Ædric, the crown prince's younger brother and rival for the throne. The other is a letter filled with concern from your childhood friend and secretary-in-training, Cyfrin, who is currently assisting your father at your family’s ducal estate in the countryside. Each letter contains a proposition that will change the course of your fate forever.

Which one will you choose?

Features 

Play as the male lead’s abandoned betrothed of a historical fantasy romance that has reached ‘The End.’ You will be able to customize your character’s identity and appearance with a variety of options. 

Choose between two routes for your next course of action. Will you accept the offer of an alliance with the crown prince's younger (and more capable) brother and become the monarch you were always meant to be? Or will you take a step back from the noise and hubbub of high society in the capital and return to your family's estate in the countryside, where your best friend promises to arrange such a great vacation for you that you’ll forget about your ex in no time? 

Characters

The Second Prince: Ædric Aurelius

Ædric is known throughout the kingdom as the Dark Prince, not just because of his ebony black hair, but also because of his unsociable disposition. While it is true that his deep violet eyes and usual scowl can be intimidating, he has been nothing but kind to you in all the years that you have known him. Sometimes you would catch him looking at you with a small smile on his face, but he would always deny it ever happened.

(Ædric's introduction post)

The Future Secretary: Cyfrin Galanthus

You have known Cyfrin your entire life, and your father has known him for even longer, given that he discovered your best friend on the doorstep of your home when he was just a baby. Even though he is the older one between you two, he often trails behind you like a duckling following its mother when his break times align with yours. He has often been compared to a dog: always eager to spend time with you, fiercely protective and loyal, sullen and moody whenever you are apart.

(Cyfrin's introduction post)

The Crown Prince: Ædan Aurelius

Handsome and charismatic, Ædan is the definition of a fairytale prince… just not your fairytale prince. With his golden blond hair and crystal blue eyes, he easily captured the hearts of the people upon his social debut. When he unleashes his soft smile upon a crowd, there is a very high chance that more than half of those present will swoon. You, too, were once enchanted by that smile, back when you thought your love would last until the end of time.

(Ædan's introduction post)

The Fair Saintess: Helene

If your world was the setting of a typical romance novel, there would be no doubt who the protagonist would be. People say that her beauty is a blessing from the gods, and that her silver hair and golden eyes were meant to set her apart as the Favored One. Helene may have almost the entire kingdom wrapped around her little finger, but you know that her true colors are lurking just beneath the kind and naive front she puts up.

(Helene's introduction post)

Status

Chapter 1, Part 1: releasing on January 5, 2024 9:00 PM EST

Chapter 1, Part 2: in progress, estimated release in April/May 2024

Chapter 1, Part 3: in progress

(MC's introduction post)

(Frequently Asked Questions)

Game Link

[apoloadonisandnarcissus]

The fact so many are really out there cherry-picking Robert Eggers interviews to justify their incorrect interpretations of “Nosferatu” (2024) ending is wild. Some are really obsessing over the “vengeance” detail and taking it out of context while ignoring everything else. This is peak denial, and you are grasping at straws, at this point.

Linda Muir, the costume designer, reveals Ellen’s costumes showcase her progressive liberation from Victorian society until she’s fully liberated at the end, and her nature takes over;

Robert Eggers calls the union between Ellen and Orlok “a sacred marriage”, a “completion of some kind of destiny”, “sex and death”, and how Orlok is the only person who can understand and fulfill Ellen;

Bill Skarsgård described the ending as “sex and ecstasy”, and “maybe that is what Orlok wanted all along”, and that this story is “a very heightened fairy tale/dark story, but also it's two people potentially falling in love. It isn't love, it's something else, but love is maybe the closest thing to it that you can kind of relate to”;

Lily-Rose Depp said: “she's [Ellen] doing a good deed and she's breaking the curse, but she's also indulging in a dark desire that she has” and how “ it’s a love story with Count Orlok” and “there’s a mutual yearning there”;

David White, the Prosthetics and Make-up Designer said they made “a different paint job” on Orlok to give a “sense that there’s some kind of twisted romance going on here” because the idea wasn’t “grossing everyone out. It’s quite delicate. The beats that Robert’s looking for, he’s very good at pacing those things.”

Linda Muir also confirmed the lilacs connect Ellen and Orlok, even though this is obvious in the film itself, it’s the visual storytelling of their yearning: “this lavender hue subliminally underscores the connection between Ellen and Orlok, who remembers lilacs from when he was alive.”

Robert Eggers also confirmed Ellen and Orlok are inspired by Catherine and Heathcliff from “Wuthering Heigths” by Emily Brontë. Catherine and Heathcliff are reunited in the spiritual realm after their physical deaths, and Mr. Lockwood sees their spirits approaching the window. The last shot of Von Franz is him at the window, smiling.

Robert Eggers also revealed he was inspired by “Svengali” (1931); where Svengali could only have the female lead love in death (“Oh, God, grant me in death what you denied me in life; the woman I love”) and also “La Belle et la Bête” (Beauty and the Beast) (1946), where the maiden’s love breaks the curse of the beast.

The only mentions of Thomas in interviews is how he’s greedy, loves his wife but doesn’t understand her (no shade, but it is what it is). But you really think her sacrifice is about him!? Linda Muir literally tells us Ellen is progressively breaking free from Victorian society until she’s fully liberated at the end, so the point of her sacrifice isn’t to save Victorian society, either. These are collaterals of the true reason; breaking the curse, like Lily-Rose Depp says. The ending is about Ellen and Orlok, and their union.

Ellen doesn’t “defeat” Orlok, they both get exactly what they want. Only idiots with confirmation bias from previous adaptations and no understanding of this story interpret the ending this way, even though all the interviews from the cast and crew, the inspirations and the film itself (if you take the time to actually break it down in a serious manner, with the historical and folklore context), contradict this interpretation.

Many also don’t know how spiritual contracts work; Orlok wanted Ellen’s soul and he got it. It’s a spiritual contract. They were both meant to die. He literally tells her “you not for living” in the prologue, and “you are not of human kind” twice. Their covenant is: “You are not for the living. You are not for human kind. And you shall be one with me ever-eternally […] As our spirits are one, so too shall be our flesh. You are mine.” They have sex not only to consummate their marriage, but because the breaking of the curse is a Sex Magick ritual (“maiden fair did offer up her love unto the beast, and with him lay in close embrace until first cock crow”). Robert Eggers show us Herr Knock performing a Şolomonari Sex Magick ritual (masturbation) for a reason.

Ellen gave him her soul; he is already dead, his spirit is trapped in that rotten corpse and has to be set free (break the curse, “her willing sacrifice freed them from the plague of Nosferatu”) and she has to die for this covenant to be fulfilled: “willing sacrifice”; Orlok asks her “you accept this, of your own will?”

The Şolomonari codex of secrets with the instructions Von Franz found not only belonged to Orlok, he wrote it himself; in Romanian folklore the final assignment at the Scholomance (the school located in the Carpathian Mountains in Transylvania, where Orlok studied to become a Şolomonar) was to copy one's entire knowledge of humanity into a "Şolomonar's book". This is based on the “Dracula” novel; Dracula also studied at the Scholomance. Von Franz says “their Nosferatu” is Şolomonari after he finds the book; he’s confirming to the audience the book is Orlok’s (the confirmed Şolomonar by the narrative; Knock is not a Şolomonar, he didn’t attend the Scholomance). This isn’t a “fan theory” and Robert Eggers doesn’t need to confirm in interviews what his film already confirms to the audience.

Orlok wanted Ellen to break his curse, and set his spirit free. When the “vampire hunters” arrive at Grünewald Manor, Von Franz tells Thomas to “set the daemon’s spirit free” (foreshadowing for Orlok’s death). Orlok also wants Ellen’s spirit by his side, forever, in the spiritual world. That is his whole motivation in this story. A curse she put on him when she brought him back from the dead, and cursed him to be a strigoi. How the hell are you taking revenge on someone while you are breaking the curse you, yourself, put upon them, in the first place? Simple, the “vengeance” Eggers talks about has nothing to do with Ellen and Orlok, and the 2023 script is filled with incorrect dialogue and descriptions, especially of the ending scene: this script says Orlok just falls over Ellen, and that doesn’t happen. She embraces him and comforts him while the sun is killing his physical form.

Ellen accepts Orlok because only him can understand and fulfill her (“I cannot be sated without you”), and she finally realizes her nature won’t ever be accepted by Victorian society (like Orlok intended when he gave her the “countdown”), because she’s not for the living, she’s not for human kind. Her and Orlok are dual-natured spirits who belong to Pagan times.

This is what Robert Eggers intended, this is what the cast and crew interview tell us, and the film itself, not your half-baked wishful thinking interpretations based on one word and on a script that’s incorrect. Eggers won’t even share with us his Orlok backstory and you really think he’s allowing the actual script to be online.

[pariaritzia]

Queerness in Indian Media

↳Film: RRR (2022, Telugu), dir. S.S. RAJAMOULI

RRR is a historical fantasy action drama that follows Bheem (NTR Jr), a Gond warrior who is in search of a Gond girl who was taken away from their home, and Ram (Ram Charan), the British Army officer assigned to catch him. Ram and Bheem meet under false identities and quickly grow closer, but everything is thrown into chaos once the truth is revealed and Ram is forced to choose between his ambitions and his attachment to Bheem.

Long before any white person had ever heard of RRR, queer Indians were cautiously optimistic that there would be something for us in this movie. There was the song Dosti, which felt more romantic than the average song about friendship; Bheem's intense declaration toward Ram in the trailer; Rajamouli explaining that there is no boy-girl romantic song (a staple of masala Indian cinema in any language) because "the romance angle is between these two guys only...bromance...they are the heroes, they are the hero and heroine, and they are the hero and villain"; the lead actors repeatedly questioning interviewers who referred to Jenny and Seetha as Bheem and Ram's love interests; and the writer, V. Vijayendra Prasad, being a huge fan of Salim-Javed movies, particularly Sholay, whose homosocial pairing has been read as queer by queer Indians for decades.

The movie itself gave us more than we could have hoped for from a project made on such a huge scale. Ram and Bheem mimic many of the "hero and heroine" pairings in so many masala movies, doing everything from the "slow-mo staring" for the first meeting, to getting a whole montage song for the progression of their bond, to dressing each other up, to dancing together at a party, to carrying each other, to rescuing each other.

The final rescue scene is perhaps the most telling, as it twists a well-known myth from the Ramayana by putting Ram and Bheem in the position of heroine and hero. It is not Hanuman who tells Rama where to find Sita in Lanka, but instead Seetha who tells Bheem where to find Ram. Bheem, upon finding him, promises to get him out 'even if [he has] to burn this Lanka down to do it'--then promptly carries him on his shoulders the way Hanuman carried Rama, to do away with any suspicions from homophobic audiences.

Those homophobic audiences still made their complaints--a glance at the oldest comments on any clip or behind the scenes video for RRR will make that clear--but they were drowned out by the many fans of the movie. Ultimately, like with any coded movie, the interpretation is up to the individual, but it is undeniable that a number of queer Indians felt that there was a romantic bond between Ram and Bheem. To dismiss that would do a disservice to the many queer people who have, are, and always will work quietly behind the scenes to write our stories, even if they can never say so directly.

[delta-back-alive-brother]

The depiction of me in the arms of another man, one that I despise for the animal-like qualities he despises; he is what you call a simp, a pervert and a debauchee, he cannot keep his excitement in his pants at the sight of Thomas Jefferson who was purposefully made appealing by JenniCatznies, another artist you possibly are acquainted with, and he does not deserve the attention of the public so as not to feed in the hunger he expresses in men “oiled up” and divested of their clothing, personality and dignity. He is dangerous, and I dread his relatives and those who live near him, forced to endure him roaming the streets in which he lives, flies buzzing after his trail. Withal, I have not been acquainted with his awful character in person and I have no desire of doing so, the notion of drawing us together therefore is absurd and questionable from a standpoint from an outsider ; the frivolity of our relationship as drawn is IDIOTIC as are you for even conjuring up this awful vision. The culture of drawing two men who have never even seen eye to eye being intimate is truly worrying in the circles of the website and it is a portal to the state of moral decay that has washed over our world and obscured the technological progress we made by dumbing our brains down, refocusing our attention from God and actual problems to fictional men licking each-others mouths in a perverted fashion that suggests inexperience of the artist ; the notion that this an acceptable pastime engagement is false and especially dangerous in the minds of likes of you. Free Yourself. Additionally, you tried to portray me as submissive, something you would know was not true if you tried to analyze my personality as a professional artist would. I do not sway with others ; I bend them to my will and women are made submissive at my sight which is how a proper woman is to be at the sight of a man however I have no interest in discussing this with you which is why I had kept this short in hopes that the message would be more clear to your minuscule brain. The realization of misdeeds you have commuted should encounter you once and then you will apologize; prayers are in order which I will pray For you not out of like but out of love and plea for the Lord not to send you to hell in spite of the distress you have blatantly caused ; you are miserable and I pity you-enjoy the day Amen. 

.Surely a repressed romance novel antagonist

Let me just adjust my glasses real quick—You claim. To despise Simpbox Anon with the fury of a thousand suns. Yet here you are, writing paragraphs about him like some kind of Victorian widow swooning over her sworn enemy's scandal letters. You're not disgusted, you're invested. And at this point—You're more invested than actual shippers.

"He is dangerous, and I dread his relatives and those who live near him, forced to endure him roaming the streets..." My guy, you just painted him like some sort of oiled up Sweeney Todd, haunting the streets with his likes for historical figures. That isn't disdain—It's lore. You've crafted an entire mythology around this man. It's surely giving slow-burn enemies to lovers.

"The culture of drawing two men who have never even seen eye to eye being intimate is truly worrying..." HAH! Says the man who just wrote a dissertation about another man's animal qualities. You are not worried about moral decay—You're worried about how much your mind PANICKED when you saw that yaoi art.

"I bend [women] to my will and women are made submissive at my sight..." Dear gods. This is the most "I've never spoken to a woman" statement uttered. You don't bend others to your will—You daydream about being a dom while folding like a literal lawn chair the moment someone looks at you with mild authority.

"Prayers are in order which I will pray for you not out of like but out of love..." Classic "I don't like you but I'm absurdly obsessed with your soul" maneuver. This isn't piety, it's fanmail. If God did send you a vision, it wouldn't be of damnation—it'd be of Simpbox Anon leaning in, grabbing your chin and kissing you.

THE VERDICT—You're not fooling anyone. You LOATHE Simpbox Anon the way Romeo loathed Juliet before their first kiss. And the best part about why are you so mad? You know it.

Go ahead, clutch your prayers. But when you close your eyes tonight, we both know who'll be there.

By the way. "—by JenniCatznies, another artist you possibly are acquainted with." He's my husband.

@jennicatzies @gastroentred @biblicalvampireemmy

[di-daynamic]

@hprecfest Day 7

Prompt: The best of your OTP

I think it's pretty obvious my Harry Potter OTP is Hinny. Five of my favourite Hinny fics are:

Bewitched by @starlingflight When Luna suggests, after Ginny suffers through the latest in a long line of comically bad dates, that the solution to all of her problems lies in brewing a love potion, she thinks it's all a big joke. Obviously, magic isn't real. Luna's potion recipe is nothing more than a novelty, sold to tourists enamoured with the legends surrounding their historical hometown of Godric's Hollow. Of course, Ginny really should've learned by now that her plans have a tendency to go awry. So it really shouldn't come as that much of a surprise to her when, the very next day, half the town seems to find her utterly...bewitching The only person who appears to be immune to the enchantment she's accidentally cast, is the one person who she wishes saw her as something more than his best friend's little sister; typically, even the miracle of actual magic can't capture Harry Potter's interest, and now he's the only person who can help her fix this latest mess she's created...

A beautiful Not-Quite-Muggle AU where Harry and Ginny are both so in character, and their romance is so sweet. I love how all the events happen on the same day over the years and how incredibly it shows the progression of their relationship.

Orchards by @whinlatter The orchard is a wild, thousand-flower, crumpled-gate, fall-down-fence sort of place, where things grow that you never asked for, that you’d never expect. The summer of ’96, the story of something flowery he thought he might have smelled at the Burrow. Canon-compliant, oneshot, summer between OotP and HBP. Non-linear narrative, flashbacks/flash-forwards to DH. Harry/Ginny.

Her post-war fic Beasts is also amazing. The way she describes Ginny's reticence and trauma, and Harry's openness and trauma is great. Her Hermione and Golden Trio are incredible. The description of post war justice and how it's not easy is so well done too.

Coffeehouse AU by @annerbhp Wherein Harry never could help himself from trying to save the day, and Ginny was just trying to survive her shift without killing any of her customers.

All their fics are amazing, but this one is my particular favourite.

mischiefmanaged!verse by irnan Post!dh headcanon, epilogue-compliant; a continuation of irnan's fascination with the question of what-came-after-the-happy-ending. Not in chronological order; but hopefully, doesn't need to be.

Their works are so freaking gorgeous. The descriptions and more importantly the relationships, between the Potter siblings, the Golden Trio and obviously Hinny are AMAZING.

Out of the Mouths of Babes by The_Clockwork_Monk Prompt: ���Uncle Ron said something about Harry knocking Ginny up, but I don’t know what he means,” Teddy said.

The Weasley family shenanigans are adorable, and Harry and Ginny are written amazingly.

I'm sure I've forgotten some though. There are so many great Hinny fics, it's so hard to choose.

[loquaciousquark]

DAI Update

I haven't forgotten Tav's BG3 playthrough (I have the pictures put together, just need to assemble the posts), but now that I've gotten through the first Solas romance scene, I felt the need to share some DAI screenshots to mark my progress.

This is Adahla Lavellan, electricity/spirit mage. She likes history and religious study and puzzles and, much to my chagrin, Solas.

She's got the vallaslin of Dirthamen (secrets, knowledge) and a hunger to understand the roots of major historical & legendary events. I'm still learning her as I play, but so far I know she's very self-assured and has almost no regrets; once she commits to a path, she lets go of wondering what else might have been and completely focuses on the decisions still ahead.

I've been trying to lean into the spy stuff mentioned in the prologue & in her codex. I know she was a foundling left with the clan at birth by non-elves, and she has a fascination with other cultures and especially with the various theologies scattered across Thedas. (I'm pretty sure she devoured every Genitivi text she could find growing up.)

While she does worship the elven gods, she doesn't disbelieve in any of the others; rather, she's deeply curious about finding ways where the elvhenan tradition and Andrastian tradition can both be true, or where the legends of the Old Gods and Tyrdda Bright-Axe might have overlapped at their religious root.

Her familiarity with these cultures made her the most suitable to represent the Lavellan clan at the Conclave. The mark is more of an exciting mystery to her than a painful burden, and though she does believe in the diplomatic efforts of the Inquisition and is firmly comfortable in her place leading the charge against Corypheus (since he wants to kill specifically her), she's secretly most invested in the Inquisition's acquisition of ancient texts, access to libraries, and uncovering of secrets. For her, "Inquisitor" is a decidedly literal title.

Romance stuff under the cut.

I was very unsure of how the Solas romance would go with a character like her. As @silksieve said, I'm coming at the romance from the wrong end; I already know who Solas is and yet know literally zero of the romance structure. I needed to create a character who could survive a heartbreak, and I think I've done that, but I'm fascinated to see how the intermediary beats shake out.

However, the romance ended up sparking naturally due to lovely happenstance. I've been keeping Solas in the party almost constantly so I can learn to like him, which meant he was present as I worked through all the astrariums and ocularums in the Hinterlands, the Storm Coast, and most of the Emerald Graves. (Yes, even here, I'm still a completionist.) This led to a nice bit of headcanon that Adahla & Solas worked through a lot of the star puzzles together, which meant that later in the Graves, when I stumbled upon one without Solas in the party, Adahla & I both had a moment of seriously missing him and wishing he was there.

It felt natural, therefore, to examine (logically and methodically) why she was missing him so much, and after bringing him a copy of the unsolved map so she could watch him solve it and judge the number of tries it took him, I think she realized she was growing interested in more than his stories of Fade wanderings and legends out of time.

Considering this whole relationship started with him being grabby and rude while she felt like death, I'm amazed they've gotten this far. She may not have always liked him, but she has always respected him, and I the player was surprised at how smooth the change in her opinion felt.

Also as a player, I'm still a bit unsure of Solas myself. I like the deep wealth of history and knowledge he provides, but there's a...a sort of rigid pride to him that I personally still find off-putting. As I mentioned on stream, I'm going to need to see some chinks in the armor to really buy into the romance in any major way. Plus, he's just so...blandly designed! I dunno. Bald, beige, and a boring dresser? I know this is a me thing, but dang, seeing the concept art with dreads...well, a girl can dream.

Adahla, however, is having a great time. Once she decides on something, she commits with her whole heart, and now that he's admitted to being thrown off-balance during the Fade scene, she's made it her mission to keep him on that back foot as long as possible. I again have no idea how the romance plays out, and please God don't spoil me, but she & I are both hopeful that she'll keep him guessing through the end.

In terms of gameplay, I've about finished the Hinterlands, the Storm Coast, the Emerald Graves, and the Forbidden Oasis. I plan to do Wicked Eyes & Wicked Hearts (or whatever it's called) next, followed by Crestwood, and then will keep working through the maps one by one. The level gating isn't quite as bad as I remember, though still annoying, and my few QoL mods have shaved off the worst of the gameplay irritants (thank you @bettydice!).

All in all, I'm having a really good time! Like I said, I'm still a little doubtful about Solas myself, but the character concept coming into shape for Adahla feels sound, and I think she's resilient enough to weather some of the revelations that Priory wasn't. I'm excited to keep going and find out! :)

Also, my girl, because I still love her best: