#lms if you read the tags

[almond-gallery]

an enjolras because i miss him

[tennessoui]

it’s like baby gorl there’s no way I, the author who wrote the fic you’re commenting on and who is the intended audience for this comment, am gonna agree with you 😿🙏 some things can just stay on your chest 🙏

[iilmunchkiin]

STRAWPAGE DOODLES!! + asks

That is honestly so real of you, this is me but with the stupid metal pipe. I have an option on my keyboard that makes it when ever I type something it makes the metal pipe sound effect so you'll just hear *CLANK* *CLANK* *CLANK* *CLANK* *CLANK* (i LOVE IT)

THE RAT ANON!!! YOU'RE BACK!!!!

HELP I LEGIT CACKLED WHEN I SAW THIS HELP ME WIYGASDSDAS HE LOOKS SO DUMB I WANNA WJASHDJ I LOVE HOW STUPID THIS LOOKS wait why is he bald

No I'm prettttyyyy sure I have an idea who you are... a certain oc x dalv shipper perhaps... ( •̀ .̫ •́ )✧

LET ME IN. LET ME INNNNN!! I will be the president of the club. I have so much proof of me legit tweaking over him.

Oh my god no way dalv x decibat fan child lets go /j I love how the rat is presenting it like it's the nurse that helped them give birth to it "Here's your healthy baby!" *fucking throws it*

FUcking RAT

WHoaaa the martlet I just realized how little I draw martlet when I have such a cute design for her.. hm. I should draw her more.

"So cool" -Sandal Underwear Thank you btw ur cool too <3

HE'S SO CUTE I WANT HIM DEAD Oh this reminded me when I was talking to him in character AI and I called him a goofy goober, istg he sent the funniest fucking response ever like "Pardner, what in the rootin' tootin' hell is a GOOBER!?" I was cackling broo, I should draw our convo like I did when he said asked in that one comic if they knew what bleeding was when clover was, idk, DYING? This comic btw hihi

shut the FUCK UP!! IM GOING TO COOK YOU!!

[la-pheacienne]

Me: Hugo isn't obsessed with details, you are just lazy fucks

Hugo: In the dining-room, a long and superb gallery which was situated on the ground-floor and opened on the gardens, M. Henri Puget had entertained in state, on July 29, 1714, My Lords Charles Brulart de Genlis, archbishop; Prince d'Embrun; Antoine de Mesgrigny, the capuchin, Bishop of Grasse; Philippe de Vendome, Grand Prior of France, Abbe of Saint Honore de Lerins; Francois de Berton de Crillon, bishop, Baron de Vence; Cesar de Sabran de Forcalquier, bishop, Seignor of Glandeve; and Jean Soanen, Priest of the Oratory, preacher in ordinary to the king, bishop, Seignor of Senez.

[foolbo]

love the chapters where victor hugo just talks about stuff. thanks for the bead knowledge i just know that now

[lostjudgmnt]

hi. day one over. ouuughgh.

[inthedayswhenlandswerefew]

When The World Is Crashing Down [Chapter 4: These Words Are All I Have So I'll Write Them]

Series summary: Your family is House Celtigar, one of Rhaenyra’s wealthiest allies. In the aftermath of Rook’s Rest, Aemond unknowingly conscripts you to save his brother’s life. Now you are in the liar of the enemy, but your loyalties are quickly shifting…

Chapter warnings: Language, warfare, violence, serious injury, alcoholism/addiction, prostitution, references to sexual content including noncon (18+), pregnancy, methods of ending pregnancy, speaking High Valyrian at a third-grade level, no Larys Strong this time yay!!!

Series title is a lyric from: “7 Minutes in Heaven” by Fall Out Boy.

Chapter title is a lyric from: “Dance, Dance” by Fall Out Boy.

Word count: 6.7k.

Link to chapter list: HERE.

Taglist (more in comments): @tinykryptonitewerewolf @lauraneedstochill @not-a-glad-gladiator @daenysx @babyblue711 @arcielee @at-a-rax-ia @bhanclegane @jvpit3rs @padfooteyes @marvelescvpe @travelingmypassion @darkenchantress @yeahright0h @poohxlove @trifoliumviridi @bloodyflowerrr @fan-goddess @devynsficrecs @flowerpotmage @thelittleswanao3 @seabasscevans @hiraethrhapsody @libroparaiso @echos-muses @st-eve-barnes @chattylurker @lm-txles @vagharnaur @moonlightfoxx @storiumemporium @insabecs @heliosscribbles @beautifulsweetschaos @namelesslosers @partnerincrime0 @burningcoffeetimetravel-fics @yawneneytiri @marbles-posts @imsolence @maidmerrymint @backyardfolklore @nimaharchive @anxiousdaemon @under-the-aspen-tree @amiraisgoingthruit @dd122004dd @randomdragonfires @jetblack4real @joliettes

Let me know if you’d like to be tagged! 🥰💜

She gives you a new dress to replace the one that is sopping wet and algae-stained from your tumble into the fishpond: a deep gory maroon, low-cut across the chest, a slit up to your thigh. It is the most revealing thing you have ever worn. You keep crossing your arms and tugging at the fabric, trying to make it cover more of you, incurably out-of-place in this room, this world. The madam is seated at her desk and jotting down notes in a thick, ancient book. When you steal glimpses of her words, they are messy and often misspelled, the script of a child. If you had parchment, you could write a letter. Your hands itch for it; your fingers flex to grasp nothing.

A woman glides into the madam’s bedroom—a tiny kingdom where no men exist—and hands you a cup of tea. She appraises you with a swift, intrigued glance; her hair is long and coppery red, her belly rounded out. She is perhaps five months pregnant. The madam casts her a stern look and the woman dutifully vanishes. “What is this?” you ask as you take a sip. It’s hot, lemony, bitter. “Moon tea?”

The madame chuckles. “No. We have moon tea for if that doesn’t work.”

Because I’m going to be doing things that could result in a child. Because I’m going to be violated here, again and again, I who was so terrified of being possessed by even one man.

The madam says: “Can you play any instruments?”

“No.” You draw into yourself—eyes and ears and the pores of your skin—every detail, every tapestry on the walls and creaky board of the floor and shift in tones of voice, anything that could help you escape. You are a traveler in a strange land. You have no map, no compass. You can bandage burns and set bones, but you know nothing about brothels in the suffocating, squalid entrails of a city.

“Sing or dance?”

“Not well at all.”

A furrowed brow. “Can you sew?”

“Barely.”

“Cook?”

“No.”

Disappointment, palpable and shaming. “Can you read or write?” the madam asks, scratching disorderly lines of black ink into her book.

“Both.”

Now she has perked up a bit. “How well?”

“Fluently.”

A raised eyebrow. This is unusual. “Any other languages besides the Common Tongue?”

“No.” Then you add desperately: “But I know about medicine! I’ve studied herbology and wound tending, and I can act as a healer for the women here, I can—”

“You could, perhaps,” the madam says, smiling with sad, aged patience. “But that is not what the prince regent intended.”

You stare at her, aghast, petrified. There is no swaying her. You consider revealing yourself and attempting to bribe her with the renowned Celtigar fortune, but this is inadvisable. It is one thing to be raped; it is another to be raped and then murdered and then probably raped again. The Greens are the true heirs of the throne in this establishment, which means Rhaenyra and all those who aid her are traitors. Already you have overheard the women gossiping about King Aegon. They do not appear to fear or dislike him; on the contrary, they fret over him like anxious mothers or wives. They hope his recovery is quick. They are grateful he survived. They wonder if he will return to visit them again soon. They do not seem to be under the impression that he is vile, amoral, cruel, a threat, a curse. When they look at him, white hair and ocean-deep eyes, they do not see a monster.

“You aren’t bleeding currently,” the madam continues.

“How do you know that?”

“You didn’t ask for a rag when I gave you that dress.” New words springing to life on those yellowed pages, pricelessly valuable and yet forbidden to you. “Ever borne children?”

“No.”

“Are you a maiden?”

You can’t decide how to answer; you aren’t sure if either reply will help you. You settle on the truth. “Yes,” you admit tentatively.

“Good. We can charge more for you.”

“Wait, no, I’m not. I’ve been with lots of men.”

The madam laughs, shaking her head as she makes her notes. Her necklace and earrings jangle merrily, too large, glinting and gaudy. “Have no fear. I will make it easier for you. I will find a slight, young lad to be your first. He won’t be too big, he won’t last too long. And if you’re fortunate, he’ll even be handsome!” Her prominent, pale eyes go distant; she is orchestrating myths, the trade she deals in like some women sell silk or wool. “A soldier home on leave, perhaps. Looking for a taste of dwindling innocence before he marches off again to be butchered by a Costayne or a Darklyn.” She snaps back into the room. “It will be over before you know it. You’ll be more underwhelmed than anything else, trust me.”

You picture it, red, rust, rage, resignation: the impossibly large stain of blood on your cousin Theodora’s bedsheets. “What if I’m frightened? What if I cry?”

The madam shrugs. “Some men like that. It will convince them of your inexperience.”

You gape at her. “That’s appalling.”

“That’s the world we live in.” She sets down her quill, closes the book, and stretches out her back as she stands. “Follow me. I’ll show you around.”

There are rooms where the women sleep, rooms where they get ready, servants to arrange their hair and moonlight-silver mirrors and a cluttered array of cosmetics and closets bursting with sheer, sensuous gowns. As the madam momentarily diverts her attention from you to scold a servant for knocking over a tin of rouge made from ground cinnabar, you swipe a small stick of kohl eyeliner off a table and tuck it into the pocket of your dress. You might be able to write with it.

What is that pocket supposed to be for? A vial of perfume to mask the sweat of men, mint leaves to clear away their taste? A cloth to mop their mess off your thighs? You shudder, then trail after the madam as she floats out into the hallway.

There are bedchambers, six or seven of them, but the doors are shut. You can smell incense burning; you can hear moans and wet slaps of flesh beneath plucks of harps played by servants. Outside there is a courtyard where women sit on the stone rims of fountains simpering and stroking men’s beards, necks, chests, thighs. It is surrounded by a wall nine feet high. Armed guards pace through the maze of rose bushes and elm trees and proliferate quilts of ivy, keeping uninvited men out, keeping women in. They are protected from their own ambitions of some other kind of life. They are prisoners. The sky above them is a mosaic of spilled wine and gold; the sun is setting.

Downstairs in the kitchen, the madam leaves you in the care of the same woman you saw earlier, long coppery ringlets and a bastard in her belly. The dress she wears is a cleaner red than yours, not blood that has dried and flaked but a heart that’s still beating. She is chopping vegetables and tossing them into a pot boiling over the fire. The long wooden table is strewn with carrots, onions, potatoes, leeks, mushrooms, fresh dark green herbs.

She flashes you a wily smile. “Our cook dropped dead last week. We’ve yet to procure a new one, so I’m making myself useful. All the house laments.”

You laugh and join her, though you don’t know the first thing about working in a kitchen; you pick up a knife and begin slicing through a carrot. It takes more muscle than you anticipated.

“On a cutting board, you idiot,” the woman says kindly, passing you one.

“Sorry. I’ve never cooked before.”

“What? Never?” Her auburn eyebrows spring up. “Where did you come from?”

The cliffs, the sea, salt and waves and mist. “The Crownlands.”

She is studying you with interest as her blade hovers over a half-chopped leek. “Were you a handmaiden to a lady there, or…?”

“It doesn’t matter. Whoever I was, I’m not the same person anymore.”

“No,” the woman agrees softly. “None of us are, I suppose.”

You glance down to her belly. You don’t wish to offend her, but you are curious.

“Go on,” she prompts. “You may inquire. I am well aware of my predicament whether you speak of it aloud or not, I assure you.”

“Did the moon tea not…expel the child?”

“No,” she sighs as she resumes hacking away at the leek. She speaks with vague, weary fondness. “The lemonweed tea did not prevent it, the moon tea did not kill it. I nearly died of fever and vomiting myself, but the child held on. It’s alive in there, I can feel it kicking sometimes. A fierce little thing.”

You nod, still gazing at her belly, undeniable evidence of the act that built it. The copper-haired woman is almost certainly younger than you, and yet she knows exactly what it means to be opened by a man, pillaged, conquered, used, left. This time tomorrow, you will know it too. “The madam let you stay?”

“Not very enthusiastically, but yes. I cook, I clean, I do the shopping in the market. She does not fear letting me venture out into the city. She knows I have nowhere else to go. I only have to entertain clients if they ask for a pregnant woman. Some men have a particular liking for that, you know.”

You did not know. “Right.”

“Besides, there might be some advantage in it for the madam,” the woman tells you. She grins. “When the child is born, there’s a chance it will have the silver hair of a Targaryen. Then the madam could approach Otto Hightower for a reward of some sort, money, protection. Royal bastards have never been more valuable. Little princes are dying left and right.”

“King Aegon’s?” you say numbly. “The child could be his?”

“Yes, obviously. Who else?”

So Aemond does not frequent this place as a customer. You wonder how he met the madam.

Aegon was here before the war began, you think, blood hot in your face, your guts twisting and nauseous. How many women know what he feels like, tastes like, sounds like when he is moaning in pleasure instead of agony?

The copper-haired woman is staring at you quizzically. You have to say something. You hear your voice like the distant cry of a crow through fog: “What was he like? The king, I mean.”

She considers this. “Drunk. Sad. But perfectly pleasant. I wouldn’t mind serving him again. He’s well thought of on the Street of Silk. I do hope he recovers. I think Rhaenyra would hang us all from a gallows. She knows Daemon has a wandering eye, and she’s not the type of wife to look the other way.”

You are trying to clear it out of your skull, like a room full of smoke: Aegon was here, Aegon was here, Aegon was here. “When you met with him, it was in this brothel?”

She hesitates. “Mostly.”

Mostly…? “Have you been inside the Red Keep?”

“Once. Ages ago. There is a network of secret passageways beneath the castle and behind the walls. The king has been known to use them for…well. You know.”

It should not hurt you. You’ve spent all your life listening to the tales of his failings. Yet it does, more than you thought was possible. You’ve never wanted a man before. But you want Aegon now. You do, you must, otherwise you wouldn’t be so pained by the thought of others touching him. You wonder if he feels the same way about you, if he ever lies awake at night with his stomach in knots over your nameless betrothed.

You try to focus on this moment, this kitchen, this copper-haired woman.You need to find a way out of here. “So the madam will decide what happens to your child once it’s born.”

“Of course,” she replies simply.

“You don’t want to keep it yourself? You are not attached to it?”

The woman is suddenly serious, quiet, melancholy. “I have no choice in the matter.”

She’s my chance. She’s my redeemer. “Can I ask your name?” you say.

“What my family named me is of no account. As you said, we’re not the same people anymore.” She smiles, warm like embers once again. “People here call me Autumn.”

“Autumn,” you echo. A woman with hair the color of crisp, dying leaves, the color of a dying world hurtling towards winter. “I think I can help you. You and your child, no matter its parentage.”

She does not want to believe you—hope is a dangerous, taunting creature, one that builds a home in your ribcage and then taps taps taps its claws along the ladder of bones—but she does. You can see it flickering in her small, upturned hazel eyes. “You…what?”

“When you go to the market, do you take a list with you? Of items that you require?”

“Yes,” Autumn replies, puzzled. “The madam always gives me one.”

“Do you have any parchment here in the kitchen?”

Autumn shakes her head. “The madam keeps it in her room. Shall I ask her—?”

“No,” you say. “Definitely don’t ask for any. Is there an old list lying around, perhaps?”

“Um, let me see…” Autumn rummages around the table; onions go rolling, leeks are flung aside. She snatches a tattered, folded sheet of parchment from under a pile of potatoes and surrenders it to you. “Here. This is the one from yesterday.”

You open it and lay it flat on the table. Sure enough, there is a list written in black ink; but not in the Common Tongue. The items are sketched. There’s a carrot with a cloudlike plume of fronds atop it, a bee (meaning honey, you imagine), a pig and a chicken, a round bottle with a heart drawn above it. Perfume? you guess. “These are pictures.”

“Well, of course. I wouldn’t be able to read it otherwise.”

You take the stick of black kohl out of your dress pocket and flip over the list. The back is blank. You write as Autumn watches, baffled, fascinated.

Your Grace, you begin, and then scratch it out. You start again.

Aegon,

Aemond has imprisoned me in a brothel. He knows the madam (middle-aged, brown hair, clever).

“What is this place called?” you ask Autumn.

“The Pink Pearl,” she says.

Autumn works here, if you recall her. She says the establishment is known as the Pink Pearl. Please send someone to rescue me at once. I am to be put to work soon, and I am afraid.

You pause. What will he have been told? What will he think of you now?

I beg your forgiveness for my deceit. I did not mislead you out of malice. I knew you needed help, and that I would not be able to provide it if my true identity was known. I have not done anything to undermine your cause. I have not written a word to my family. I assume they now believe me to be dead. I do not want this, but it is a sacrifice I have made so that I can continue to serve you.

Please help me. Please allow me to return to the Red Keep.

My name was a lie, but none of the rest was.

Angel

“You’re highborn, aren’t you?” Autumn says, hushed, awed. “You must be, to write like that.”

“Yes. And I am a friend of King Aegon. If he knows I’m here, he will pay for me.” You don’t know that for sure, but you have hope, that risky rattling beast.

“He will pay to fuck you, you mean?”

“I believe he will buy my freedom.”

“And if he doesn’t?”

Then I will slit my own throat with one of these knives. “It’s better for everyone if he does.” You fold the parchment closed and then give it to Autumn. She takes it, perplexed but willing. “I cannot leave this place. But you can. I need you to get that letter to the king. You know the way to the Red Keep; you have been inside these secret passageways. Hand the letter to him directly if possible. If you are intercepted, ask to see the Dowager Queen Alicent or…” You debate this. Sir Criston is closer to Aemond than Aegon, but you believe the opposite to be true for the youngest Targaryen brother. “Or Prince Daeron. Tell them that the letter must be read by the king immediately, and by him only. If he is resting, he must be roused. If he is speaking with someone, he must be interrupted. Explain this and then leave. And do not allow the prince regent to see you.” Aemond’s words blow through you like a cold wind: If she tries to escape, kill her.

“This is a difficult task,” Autumn says uncertainly, the folded square of parchment disappearing into the bodice of her gown. “I cannot promise you anything. But I can try.”

“If I am rescued, I will see that you and your child are provided for. You will have your own home, one far, far away from here. You will never have to answer to the madam again. You will never have to lie with a man who is not of your choosing. Your life will be your own.”

She stares at you, dazed and wonderous. She cannot even fathom this, but she knows she wants it. You’ve begun to feel that way about certain things as well. When Autumn speaks, it is in little more than a whisper. “I would like that very much.”

“You will have my most fervent gratitude.”

“I will depart tonight after supper. I will tell the madam that I am craving apple cake from a street vendor.”

“Thank you, Autumn,” you say, lips trembling as they curl into a smile, tears blurry in your eyes.

She points to the stick of black kohl you’ve used as a makeshift quill, smirking. It’s still clutched in your dominant hand. “You’d better hide that before people start showing up looking for soup.”

Hours later, you are trying to fall asleep in a room you share with half a dozen other women who are not presently working, beds so close together they almost touch, soft snores, mattresses shifting when people roll over, a thin wool blanket pulled all the way up to your chin.

Aegon will read the letter. Aegon will send someone to rescue me.

In the darkness, your hands wander down to your belly, your hips, lower. Skating over your white silk nightgown, your fingertips press cautiously at a place where you sometimes feel an indistinct, uneasy sort of pleasure. You rarely touch yourself; you cannot do so without remembering that your body is not your own and never has been. But now, for the very first time and without any premeditation, you picture Aegon—his murky oceanic eyes, his crooked grin, his hands, his bravery, his gentleness, his shock of white-blond hair adorned with that single tiny braid—and instantly your once-ambiguous desire sharpens, strengthens, is accompanied by a wetness that you can feel blooming warm and needful beneath your nightgown.

But it’s not going to be him. It’s going to be some stranger who doesn’t know me and doesn’t want to.

You roll over onto your side and thrust your hands under the pillow, squeeze your eyes shut until they ache, try not to hear the moans that creep through the walls like dark veins of blood poisoning.

~~~~~~~~~~

All day you wait for someone to cross through the doorway of the brothel to claim you, a guard, a messenger, Daeron, Criston, anybody. But no one does. The women here keep strange hours: late to bed, late to rise, breakfast at noon, lunch at four or five, supper long after nightfall. You pick listlessly at a breakfast of biscuits with butter, honey, and blackberry jam, bacon, weak wine, pomegranate juice, lemonweed tea to prevent an unintended child like Autumn’s.

“I was stopped by a guard just outside the Red Keep,” she mutters to you in a stolen moment, huddled together at the end of a hallway by a window that opens out onto the courtyard. “They agreed to let me see Prince Daeron. He took the letter and said he would deliver it. That’s all I could do. I hope it’s enough.”

I hope so too, you think to yourself as you thank her, marveling with brick-heavy horror at how all the Valyrian ancestry and riches in the world cannot save you from the fate of being born a card for others to play, trade, bet on, use until it is worn and faceless. I hope so with everything I’m made of.

The other women take you with them to the bathhouse down the street, and in the labyrinth of sweltering pools and swirling steam you scrub yourself all over until your skin is tender to the touch. You use perfumed soaps and luxurious floral oils, not for healing but for vanity, so strange men will imagine you to be an intoxicating fantasy, so any human imperfections can be ignored. You pluck some stray hairs and trim others. You inspect each other for bruises or scratches or bitemarks that will need to be covered. No one mentions how they got them. Everybody knows.

Back in the brothel, the women show you how to wear your hair and do your makeup: black kohl on the eyes, beeswax dyed with berry juice on the lips, powder on the face to even out your complexion. Servants flit around fussing over hairstyles and switching ripped seams on dresses. Your silk gown—the one you will be raped in—is a soft, helpless, feminine lavender. You are shown to a bedchamber: flickering candles, a mountain of pillows and jewel-toned throw blankets, harp music and fresh air breathing in through the windows. You sit on the edge of the bed wringing your hands. You are waiting to be rescued. You are waiting to be harmed.

The door opens, and he enters. The madam was truthful: she has found you a slight, benign-looking young man. He smiles shyly, clanging in his light armor. He is indeed a soldier on leave from the front. He wears the crest of his family as the clasp for his cape, a white shield with a black cross. He is a Norcross, the same as the dying boy you were tending when Aemond pulled you off the battlefield at Rook’s Rest. How easy it would have been for you to not be here right now; a difference of a few minutes, a few meters, and Aemond never would have found you.

“Hello,” the man says pleasantly. He is yanking off his boots.

“Hello.” You are still sitting on the edge of the massive bed, big enough for four or five occupants. This is not a coincidence, you’re certain. But that will come later, once you have been sufficiently broken in. Your stomach lurches; you try not to show it.

Now he is taking off his cape. “You’re nervous,” he observes. There is a pitcher of wine on the table in the middle of the room. He pours two cups and hands one to you. You take it—intending to be dignified, ladylike—and then gulp it down. The Norcross laughs. “You needn’t fear me, maiden,” he says. “I am here for pleasure, not pain. I have paid a considerable price for you. You are a piece of treasure, a rare gem, and I will handle you accordingly.”

Then he reaches out to stroke your cheek, and something in you shatters, splits open, screams. I don’t know this man. I don’t trust this man. You shrink away from him and retreat to the center of the vast bed. The Norcross blinks at you, a little amused, a bit bewildered. “Sir, you have stumbled upon a great opportunity,” you tell him. “I am no ordinary woman.”

“No?” he says. But he is smirking beneath gleaming eyes, like this is a joke; and he is removing his armor as well.

“I am here as the result of a dreadful misunderstanding. You see, I have actually already been claimed. There is another man who has the right to take my innocence if he so chooses.”

“Oh?” the Norcross says. He is unbuttoning his white cotton shirt. “Who?”

“King Aegon.”

He throws his head back and guffaws, dark hair long enough to cover his ears and brush against the nape of his neck. “This is a very charming jape. Me? Getting to deflower the king’s chosen whore? Yes, yes, very good. Delightful. Delicious.” He crawls onto the bed; the mattress shifts beneath your palms. A cold sweat slicks across your skin. Goosebumps rise on your arms. He doesn’t hear me. He doesn’t want to.

“I’m not joking,” you implore the Norcross. “I am well-acquainted with King Aegon, he cares for me. I was brought here by mistake and against his knowledge. If you assist me in returning to him, I’m sure you will be generously compensated for your trouble—”

The man’s hand juts out, snags in your hair, yanks and tears at it. You yelp and struggle as he wrestles you down onto the mattress and settles his weight on top of you. “You’re mine, all mine,” he growls, smiling, playing along with what he has chosen to believe is a fantasy. “Not the king’s whore. The king has plenty of those already, he probably has thousands. But you’re all mine.”

“Get off me,” you order him, as if you are still the daughter of one of the wealthiest houses in Westeros and not some powerless, penniless woman imprisoned in ornate walls and perfumed silk; and isn’t this where you always would have ended up anyway? Flinching on some stranger’s bed as he tried to claim you, subdue you, force pieces of himself inside you?

“I will show you, maiden. The king is a cripple now. He could not satisfy you anyway. I will give you what he could not. And I’ll give it to you more than once, if you ask nicely.” He presses his lips to yours, a sickening mockery of a kiss, all flesh and no heat. He is wearing only his trousers; they could be gone in an instant. He is tugging your sleeves off your shoulders to get to your breasts.

“Please don’t do this, please stop, I’ll give you anything—”

“Everything I want is right here.”

Just let him do it, you think. I can’t leave this place, I can’t fight him off. There’s no way out. Just let him do it, and live to see if freedom will arrive tomorrow.

Aemond’s words fill your skull like flashes of lighting: If she tries to escape, kill her.

The Norcross man is pulling off his trousers. It strikes you like a closed fist: the terror, the injustice, the rage. You swing at his face, your knuckles rapping against his cheekbones. “Get off of me—!”

There is a tremendous fracturing noise, and at first you think the man must have snapped one of your bones, your radius or your tibia or your clavicle. But no: it was the bedchamber door being thrown open so violently it hit the wall behind it and cracked down the middle. And now there are footsteps, and now there are guards pouring into the room, and now the point of a blade bursts through the Norcross man’s windpipe splattering blood across the bed, the walls, the wood boards of the floor. You are shrieking; scarlet rain peppers your face, chest, hands.

“You’d take an unwilling woman?!” Aegon demands of the dying man, who gapes at him with rapidly fading eyes and a mouth hemorrhaging dark, lethal red. The king is wearing all black, tunic, trousers, boots. Half of his hair is pulled back from his face and secured with a black ribbon. You have never seen him like this before. You have never seen him brutal, formidable, furious. “You fucking animal. Enjoy drowning in your own blood.”

Aegon wrenches his sword free from the dying man’s throat and he falls face-down onto the mattress as you scramble away. And then Aegon falls too: his legs give out and he collapses to his knees, kneeling in a pool of the Norcross man’s blood, the hilt of his sword tumbling out of his grasp. You bolt off the bed and drop down onto the floor beside him.

“Aegon?!”

“Are you okay?” He takes your face in his hands—they’re shaking, they’re weak again, but just strong enough to cradle the slope of your jaw—and looks at you, turning your face one way and then the other, his eyes searching for bruises, lacerations, more fuel for the vengeful fire that blazes in him. The burn on his own right cheek is inflamed, blistering. He does not seem to notice.

“I’m okay, I promise.”

“Did they hurt you?”

“No, no, you got here just in time.”

And Aegon—this so-called monster, this alleged beast, this man who the Blacks swear is a villain and a degenerate and soulless—slips the sleeves of your silk lavender gown back up over your shoulders so your chest is covered. “If it’s any consolation, you’re fucking beautiful.”

“Of course you would prefer me dressed like a prostitute.”

He laughs, embraces you, holds you to him, the first time he ever has. Your arms link around the back of his neck, your fingers knot in his hair. You are so close, yet not nearly close enough; you want him completely, always. You can’t claw your way back up the cliff you’ve fallen down.

There is a commotion as the guards that accompanied Aegon to the brothel part to allow two new arrivals into the bedchamber. Aemond and Criston now stand just inside the doorway, breathing heavily from their sprint across the city. Your gaze meets Aemond’s and you clutch Aegon tighter. The king kisses your temple—so quickly and unceremoniously it feels like a habit, something instinctual, something innately right—and reluctantly unravels himself from you. He grabs the nearest bedpost and hauls himself to his feet, wincing, groaning, bracing himself against it with both hands.

“What the hell are you doing?!” Aemond shouts at his brother.

“You will not harm her! You will not take her from me!”

“Aegon, she’s not a Thorne, she’s a Celtigar! Her father sits on Rhaenyra’s council, he funds her war effort, when our men are killed it’s with arrows and steel that he paid for—!”

“We’re all different people now!” Aegon roars. “All of us! You were some pathetic runt, I was useless, Daeron was a child, Helaena was happy, Criston was devoted to Rhaenyra, Mother was her closest friend, all of us have been changed by this world and its endless goddamn misery! So she was born a Celtigar, is she to be eternally condemned for that? Is she truly irredeemable? Can no acts of service to the Greens’ king convince you of her loyalty? She saved my life!”

“Are you insane?! We can’t trust her!”

“I am the king!” Aegon bellows. “I am still the one who gets to make these decisions, no matter how unworthy you think I am!”

“She lied to you, to me, to everyone, that cannot go unpunished!”

And then Aegon responds, but not in the Common Tongue. He says something—laboriously, haltingly—in a language you recognize only from hearing Daemon and Rhaenyra converse in it. You were not aware that Aegon knew High Valyrian well enough to carry a conversation. Perhaps Aemond and Criston weren’t either; they exchange a brief, astonished glance. The guards’ eyes dart between the king and the prince regent.

Aemond replies, his tone cutting but his words swift, seamless, graceful, fluent. Aegon stumbles his way through a sentence or two, pausing several times to conjure the correct word. Aemond says something else, an effortless litany of syllables your forebears shared. Aegon forces out one last plea. It sounds painful; it sounds like a confession. Aemond stares at his brother, perhaps scandalized, perhaps merely stunned.

“Alright?” Aegon pants, in anguish now. His hands are like talons on the bedpost, the force of his fingernails leaving white scratches in the wood. “You get it? You understand?”

“Fine,” Aemond says, low and bitter.

“You will not harm her. She stays in the Red Keep. Promise me, Aemond. I cannot rest until you do.”

Aemond nods, glaring down at the floor.

“Criston?” Aegon presses. “Promise me. If he breaks his word, you will stop him. I command this. I am your king.”

“I promise, Aegon,” Criston agrees, willingly enough.

“Good,” Aegon says. “Good.” And then he blacks out and crumples to the floor. The guards rush for him, but Criston tells them to stand back. He stoops low, lifts the king, throws him over one shoulder and carries him. Aemond fetches his brother’s fallen sword. You follow them out of the brothel, staying as far away from Aemond as you can. You pause just long enough to peek into the kitchen.

“Autumn?” you call, and she looks up from the chicken she’s been coating with herbs and butter. “I’m leaving now. You’re coming with me. Get your things.”

“What things?” she says, grinning. She cleans her hands and trots after you, one palm resting on the swell of her belly, her copper sea of hair streaming out behind her.

Inside the Red Keep, you inform the servants that Autumn will be staying as a guest of the royal family and that she is to have a room near yours. Then you hurry to Aegon’s chamber. He is sprawled across the bed, writhing and moaning. Grand Maester Orwyle is administering milk of the poppy. Criston is stripping him, heaving off Aegon’s boots and trousers before gingerly removing his tunic to reveal bandages red with blood around his shoulders. He has torn the half-mended flesh there. He suffers, he heals, he suffers again.

“Angel?” Aegon chokes out, reaching for you with tears flooding from his eyes.

“I’m here.” You take his hand. “What hurts, Aegon?”

“Everywhere,” he gasps.

You tell Orwyle: “Give him another dose.” And a second goblet of milk of the poppy is emptied down the king’s throat. Within a minute, he is mercifully unconscious again.

Criston looks at you. “What’s wrong with his face?”

“Sunlight. The rest of his burns were covered, but not the one on his cheek. Fresh burns must be kept out of the sun. He knows that.” You unwrap Aegon’s bandages; his wounds need to be cleaned and re-dressed.

“Oh, seven hells,” Criston whispers, covering his mouth with one hand. There are four or five ruptures around each shoulder, thin bleeding crevices that branch out like the legs of a red spider. Grand Maester Orwyle ambles off to order servants to fetch water, vinegar, honey, linen, more milk of the poppy.

“I should have done better,” you say, and your voice breaks. “I should have used more rose oil on his shoulders. I should have made him stretch three or four times a day.”

“You’ve tended to him tirelessly,” Criston says gently.

“I shouldn’t have lied about who I was.”

“I don’t see how you could have saved his life otherwise.”

“Go find Alicent,” you say. “Explain what’s happened, but don’t bring her to visit him yet. It will only upset her.”

“Yes,” Criston agrees, and leaves.

Outside, the sun is setting, and all the world is the color of dragonfire. Grand Maester Orwyle returns with servants and supplies. As you are dabbing at Aegon’s wounds with cloths dripping with water and vinegar, Daeron appears in the bedchamber doorway. His eyes—large and expressive like Aegon’s, but more crystalline, less dark—are shimmering and wider than you’ve ever seen them.

“Is he dying?” Daeron asks, sounding fearful and very young.

“No more than usual,” Aegon rasps; and that’s how you know he is awake again.

When Aegon is cleaned, bandaged, and soothed once again with milk of the poppy, the two of you are left alone. You perch on the edge of the mattress and can’t stop touching him, his left hand where his dragon ring glints in the flickering candlelight, his disheveled silver hair that still has that little braid you made for him. You don’t know what to say. You worry that if you begin talking, everything will spill out like a monsoon or a rogue wave, things you can’t take back, things you don’t fully understand yourself.

“House Celtigar, huh?” Aegon murmurs drowsily, smiling. “I’ve never been so happy to see a crab in my bed.”

And it hits you all at once: I would take every last drop of pain for this man. I would slit him open and drain him of it, swallow it down, assume the debt. I would carry every burden, every red flare of agony and ache in his bones. I would learn the art of self-loathing if he could forget it. I would trade fates with him, threads cut and crossed and burned to ash.

“What?” Aegon asks. He’s watching you with those storm-blue eyes, glassy with pain and poison.

Why wouldn’t you send someone else in your place? Why would you go yourself? Why would you injure yourself so grievously, so senselessly? “Why would you do this for me?”

“You are the only person I’ve never disappointed. I’d like to keep that going if I can.” He takes your hand and laces his fingers through yours. “You’re so far away.”

You lie down on the bed and curl up beside him, careful not to put pressure on his fresh wounds. You place one palm on the center of his bandaged chest, the other against his unburned cheek. Aegon pulls you in closer until your noses are nearly touching and you swing one leg up to rest on top of his; even then, he keeps a hand on your thigh, as if to make sure you don’t leave. The other twists into your hair and stays there. Aegon dives into a deep, starless sleep and you doze next to him. When you catch wisps of dreams like fireflies in a child’s grasp, you hear crashing waves and see dragons pitching into the sea: Vermax at the Gullet, Arrax into Shipbreaker Bay.

Why did Aemond have to murder Luke? Why did he have to start this war?

Something wakes you, a sound, an indescribable shift in the room. You open your eyes and turn to see Aemond, arms crossed and back propped against the opposite wall. You rise as carefully as you can so you don’t disturb Aegon, untangling yourself from him like he’s something catastrophically fragile, a spider’s web, a splintering pane of glass.

You stand and take several steps towards Aemond, only so you can speak without waking Aegon. “What do you want?”

“I fear I did not conduct myself particularly well yesterday,” he says. “I may have acted…impulsively. Unwisely.”

“Your capacity for self-reflection is truly inspiring.”

Aemond frowns. “I’m being serious.”

“I’m not interested.”

“If we are to be on the same side of this war, we should learn to understand each other.”

“I don’t want to understand you. Your mind must be a horrible place to live.”

He stares at you with his sole remaining eye, cold and hurt and wrathful and hopeless.

You ask softly, knowing that only Aemond can tell you: “What did he say? Back at the brothel?”

Aemond does not answer for so long that you convince yourself he’s not going to. At last, he decides to extend a peace offering. “He said that he cannot live without you. Or that he wouldn’t want to. I’m not certain which he meant. His High Valyrian has always been terrible.”

Then Aemond walks out of the room without another word.

[erwinsvow]

That bitchy reader post has given me LIFE. Omg, IM OBESSED. And like, reading that had me thinking of bitchy reader with jj…. LIKE I know she said totally “a dirty pogue”. BUT THINK ABT IT the dynamic between the two would be so AMAZINGG. jj constantly flirting with bitchy reader KNOWING she hates it, but he just can’t help but do it bc she’s just so pretty when frustrated and mad. And like, don’t get me started on how I KNOW bitchy reader would end up having a teensy crush on him… omg lm so obsessed 😭😭😭

oh my godddd this is SOOO REAL!! can u imagineee sarah would obvi be dragging her along to pogue adventures and she would get a little more acclimated.. already knows pope from tutoring so she'd be a little nicer to him and jj is poking john b like "why's the princess only talkin' to pope?"

bitchy reader would cut pope off and be like "i heard that. and don't call me princess." the second she rolls her eyes jj would be in luv <3

also i can imagine bitchy reader would keep tagging along insisting to sarah "i'm trying to make sure you don't do something stupid, even though i know it's hard for you not to" meanwhile jj finds some new stupid way to flirt every time she's around.

they'll be walking thru the chateau or idk at the light house in the back of the group and jj's like "yeah i once.. uh. fought an crocodile here. that's where i got this scar from. right pope?" and pope just rolls his eyes.

bitchy reader of course goes "we don't have crocodiles here. oh wait, maybe they do in the fantasy land that you live in."

sarah totally sees that bitchy reader is starting to get a crush on jj when she sees her laughing at jj's stupid jokes after some time

"what happened to the whole 'dirty pogue' thing?" bitchy reader can't think of any retort so she just tells her to shut up! thats how u know shes in too deep ♡ and yes they would fuck like rabid animals

[secretmellowblog]

Grantaire’s bar is on the floor, but Javert’s bar is at the bottom of the Seine XD. 

And yee!  To me it’s less that Javert/Valjean and Grantaire/Enjolras specifically are parallels, as much as..... they’re both part of a wider trend throughout the novel. There’s this repeated relationship dynamic where characters who consider themselves grotesque and “misérable” start worshiping another character as an ideal— and then destroy/ kill themselves in the process of that worship. 

Like Jean Valjean’s worship of Cosette: 

“Jean Valjean watched these ravages with anxiety. He who felt that he could never do anything but crawl, walk at the most, beheld wings sprouting on Cosette.”

Vs terminally Ill Fantine’s worship of Cosette:

“I have been a sinner; but when I have my child beside me, it will be a sign that God has pardoned me. While I was leading a bad life, I should not have liked to have my Cosette with me; I could not have borne her sad, astonished eyes. It was for her sake that I did evil, and that is why God pardons me. I shall feel the benediction of the good God when Cosette is here. I shall gaze at her; it will do me good to see that innocent creature. She knows nothing at all. She is an angel, you see, my sisters. At that age the wings have not fallen off.”

Vs Grantaire’s worship of Enjolras

“The toad always has his eyes fixed on heaven. Why? In order to watch the bird in its flight.

And Eponine’s strange self destructive love for Marius has shade of this— she refers to herself as “the devil,” and a “dog,” as if she’s subhuman, and obsesses over Marius as a symbol of the life she hasn’t been allowed to have.

And then there’s obviously ….whatever on earth is going on with Javert in Derailed. XD Descibing Jean Valjean as some kind of impossibly holy monster, comparing him to angels and Jesus Christ, while describing himself in these beast-like terms as  “a wolf who finds its prey, and a dog that finds its master again” and etc etc etc. 

And beside Jean Valjean glorified he beheld himself, Javert, degraded.

And this is only tangentially related but when it comes to specific character foils, I’m personally way more passionate about the parallels between Eponine and Javert's self-destructions, than between Grantaire and Javert's— and I think the Eponine/Javert parallels are far more intentional on Hugo’s part! Though I'm still not completely sure about what he was doing with it.

I know other people have talked about this before, but I ramble about it every time I have an excuse because it's like! The way Javert and Eponine "trade deaths." The way Eponine repeatedly talks about drowning herself in the Seine, and Javert is supposed to die by being shot at the barricades— but then Eponine is shot at the barricades, while Javert drowns himself in the Seine. Eponine is the quote “daughter of a wolf” who makes herself the “guard dog” of Marius, while Javert is the quote “dog son of a wolf” who ultimately becomes “a dog that has found its master again”/“the watch dog that licks the intruder’s hand”  towards Jean Valjean. Again I'm still not fully sure what Hugo was doing with that parallel (though I've rambled about it a lot) but it iS my current favorite "relationship between two Les Mis characters who almost never interact."

The point is. I guess Romantic authors really loved it when characters destroyed themselves in questionably healthy ways out of a weird combination of self-loathing and admiration   

I beg y’all’s pardon, in my recent shitpost my inexperience thinking hard about Grantaire’s character arc led me to make an inadequate punchline, and in place of “The—no;…” I would like to present as a revision:

G: So you’re a man of Aegeus’ sin, so beloved of the nineteenth century, though we perhaps thought too little of the marriage of the boathook and the bloated flesh after. You prefer a watery baptism at the tail of life as well as the head—not my preferred sacrament, when Christ has been so good a host as to give his blood, and I a gracious guest, but one can’t judge another man’s religion. Besides, she’s a very fine thing, the Seine, a romantic. All the same, a bullet’s quicker.

J: That’s well enough, but the ninny had my pistols.

[erosyrup]

Les Mis Prints for Palestine

Hi guys! I'm offering physical prints of my Les Mis art (specifically my Enjolras art) for a raffle. If you donate at least €60 to the above fundraiser for Alaa, you can enter a raffle organised by @les-mis-for-palestine

You can read their post here for more information, or check with them over in @les-mis-for-palestine-dms . Here are the links:

Donate here

Fill up the raffle form here

Sample* pictures of the prints and keychain I'm offering:

roughly A4 size print of Enjolras and the Notre Dame

roughly A5 size print of Think or Pray

14×14cm print of Enjolras sketch

roughly 5cm Enjolras keychain

PLUS

ONE additional print of any of my artworks. The winner can choose from any of the art I have (check them out here on @erosyrup or in the #syrup art tag tag). It will be roughly A5 size, and can be from any non-LM art I have too.

Even if you can't donate, sharing this is a great help too! And if you can donate, please do and you might be able to get some art in return :')

Check out @les-mis-for-palestine for the other talented artists who are also participating in the raffle!

*These pictures are from a previous batch I had given away; reprinting these prints might result in some minor differences.

[sterkeyra]

Ryo Haruki - Main Story Walkthrough

After Kento, we finally got the story of our remaining childhood friend as well. Given that Ryo was a really good wingman and helped to communicate between the two in Kentos route, i was very excited to learn of his story as well.

While Kento symbolizes the night, Ryo has the sun theme going for him, both with his golden locks as well as his sun earrings and necklace. While he is also a very smiley person, there is more behind that smile and he has quite the loose lips once noone is watching anymore. His snarky comments can bite, and you cannot always understand why he behaves the way he does because he hides behind masks and is able to switch relatively fast.

MC herself is used to put on a fake smile due to her toxic ex, so she watches with worry and wonders if it isn't exhausting to Ryo. However, compared to MC Ryo does not just let other people trample over him, he builds connections with intent and not just out of good will. So the story is built on MC switching between past memories and present scenes to fathom what the true Ryo is actually like, since he was a crybaby in the past, but behaves much different now. At the same time she has to find out what she should do from now on to get back on track, after she lost everything to her ex.

If i had to summarize the story, I would have to say that both of them struggle and they help each other to overcome their bad habits.

His harsh comments sometimes reminded me of Shinonome, because said man could be quite sweet as well. He can sometimes act more childish however, so maybe he has a bit of Tsugaru in him too (totally not saying that because i'm biased) but my radar suspects there is more hidden in Ryos pov so I will wait for that :D Voltage mentioned that fans of for example Ryoichi Hirose from Seduced in the Sleepless City, Hayden Spencer from Be My Princess 2, Haruka Utsunomiya from My Forged Wedding or Keita Mitsuura from Irresistible Mistakes. Tsugaru was also on the list *cough'

Anyways enough for now, read and see for yourself whether Ryo might be for you too.

As i've seen a few people overexaggerating the prices i've decided to make a min budget walkthrough where you can get SHE and all CGs for about 147 ❤️. If you buy hearts via their webshop you might get it for about 14$. It's possible there's a way to get it cheaper, i did not try many alternatives.

Here as promised the guide, just choose the ✨ options for the budget guide:

Ryo Haruki - Main Story

16 LM needed for HE 23 LM needed for SHE

Ch3: 5 ❤️ | 1 LM ✨ Ch5: 8 ❤️ | 1 LM + CG ✨ Ch7: 11 ❤️ | 2 LM ✨ Ch8: 10 ❤️ | 2 LM ✨ Ch9: 13 ❤️ | 1 LM Ch10: 17 ❤️ | 3 LM + CG ✨ Ch12: 15 ❤️ | 1 LM Ch13: 17 ❤️ | 2 LM ✨ Ch14: 0 ❤️ Ch15: 14 ❤️ | 3 LM ✨ Ch16: 18 ❤️ | 2 LM ✨ Ch17: 20 ❤️ | 2 LM Ch18: 22 ❤️ | 3 LM ✨ Ch19: 25 ❤️ | 4 LM + CG ✨

Min amount for HE 90 ❤️ Min amount for SHE 147 ❤️

Total amount of hearts for all choices: 195

My suspicions (Slight SPOILER):

There were some scenes where Ryo acted a bit immature that made me raise by eyebrows. Especially given how close Kento and Ryo are, I could not understand why Ryo was so insistent of MC tagging along, when MC just stated her worry about Kento. I mean I figured what he wanted to show her ( and that it's a once in 20 years opportunity), but his reaction was quite immature and unprofessional even. I know he did not really mean it and just said so out of affect, but it gave an insight in him still being hurt or maybe even a crybaby like in the past. My prediction for the POV is that we will see more of Ryos childhood and how he was affected when MC moved away. I think he might have seen reflections of his parents abandoning him, when it happened so he tried to hold onto MC even more tightly. I also have the suspicion that he was so snippy with MC at the start, and asked when she would leave again because he tried to keep her at arms length, especially with her still wearing her exes engagement ring. Once she tells him the truth there was a change in him kind of :D Anyways we shall see

CGs

Here's the outlook on the CGs to check what you can look forward to, full resolution in the app! Give him a try if childhood friend tropes are your thing! Though I'd say please be patient with him. If he truly is similar to Tsugaru, I would wait for the POV to be released as well for better understanding, because Ryo is an enigma as well sometimes😄

[daedelweiss]

DTIYS IS HEEEEREEE!!!✨️ wanted to thank you all for your overwhelming support on life mission, the comic, and even my own iteration!! y'all are the sweetest beans and i'm so so happy to share my little blorbos to all of you 💖

this is my first DTIYS so please bear with me 😄 here are some of the rules of my DTIYS:

1. you can change the setting, poses, etc. just keep the 4 brothers together, their outfits, and the starry sky because i associate LM!Leo with stars 🌟 2. tag me and tag the post with #daeslifemissionDTIYS and life mission's official hashtag ➡ #rottmnt Life Mission AU 3. deadline is March 10th!!

i will choose one main winner will win a free colored art of any character and 2 runner ups who will win a cleaned sketch of one character 👀

in case you need help figuring out the bois' full outfit, i have the temporary character sheet of them on "keep reading” section! will be making a full character sheet soon and updated profiles for them though 😄

hope y'all have fun!!! and thank you again 🥰💖 • ( 🌿 please do NOT repost, edit, trace, use, and/or sell 🌿 )

temporary character sheet:

better view of the full piece:

[obsidianpen]

So I get different headspace but hear me out: I won’t even offer u sexual favors in return for ur writing (lowkey was whore behavior hermione would be disappointed) um ur writing is the greatest thing I read ever read. I think u should be published everywhere. I tell my friends “oh have u read obsidianpen” and they r like bitch is that another fanfic writer. U r my queen u r my god and I hope u have the greatest life. With that being said lm a little upset with u bc never in my life did I consider reading harrymkrt, halfway through b and g while im waiting for an update im like oh lm gonna go see what she has going on. Now im obsessed with a 70 year old man fucking a green eyed bitch and I don’t even know what to do abt it. If ur not gonna update no glory can u PLEASE PLEAZE PLEAZE give me a little snippet. Love you the most!

(Hermione might not be that disappointed she’d hoe out for more reading material) but lollll ‘is that another fanfic writer’ 😂😂 no obsidianpen is my natural born name, how dare they mock me. And I’m not upset even a little bit, welcome to harrymort, you thought tomione was dark? You let me know once you’ve stumbled upon a fic where Harry is forcibly impregnated with snake monster eggs because Voldemort was just fucking bored, wondering why you even clicked on that despite the tags at three in the morning on a Tuesday, then you’ll really question your ao3 experiences 😂 gosh I’ve been here too long

[lesmisletters]

Les Mis Letters 2024 Informational Masterpost

There are 365 chapters in Les Misérables. Les Mis Letters is an email subscription that sends you one chapter of Les Mis a day for a year. We begin with chapter 1 on January 1st and end with chapter 365 on December 31st.

This Dracula-Daily inspired email subscription is a great way to make it through the Brick, and chat with other readers!

Subscribe to Les Mis letters at our Substack here.

You can also join the discussion in our “book club” discord server here! We’re super chill and always love new members!

The email schedule for the upcoming year can be found here. Because 2024 is a Leap Year, the dates will be slightly different from 2023.

Finally, we’re very active on Tumblr! Here are some optional Les Mis Letters Tumblr Tips, based on what worked well last year:

Read what you can and post what you can! You don't need to be completely "caught up" to add your thoughts to the tag. Catch up posts are welcome.

Tag your posts with #Les Mis and #Les Mis Letters.

Tag specific chapters with “lm” and then the volume number, book number, and chapter number. For example, Les Mis Volume 1 Book 2 Chapter 1 is “#lm 1.2.1.” Les Mis Volume 5 Book 4 Chapter 1 is "#lm 5.4.1." This makes it easy for people to find your posts about specific chapters!

Feel free to reply to older meta posts with new thoughts.

@ this blog if you see a great post related to the current chapters that we’ve overlooked!

Any other questions? Check out our FAQ or send us an ask here.

Les Mis Letters was created by Rachel but has now been passed on to Mellow. You can talk Mellow on this blog, at @secretmellowblog on Tumblr, or in the Les Mis Letters discord server.

Thank you for following along!

-mod Mellow

[liamlawsonlesbian]

fic writer questions

thank you to the lovely @mecachrome for the tag <333

how many works do you have on AO3?

there are 19 on my profile currently! there is also one anon, and I believe nine orphaned (rip)

what's your total ao3 word count?

statistics page says 92,629! it is somewhere north of that (see above reference to orphaned fics)

what are your top 5 fics by kudos?

biting fic, vegas fluff, child actors au, witch charles, remote control vibrator + feelings

do you respond to comments? why or why not?

yes!! I want to show appreciation for people taking the time, and honestly I'm just so excited that I always want to respond asljdf;asaf

what's the fic you've written with the angstiest ending?

definitely i can feel the sun on you! (that is perhaps a spoiler for the 71 year old movie Roman Holiday lol)

I don't even really think of it as angsty, though, they're each in a better place than when they started, they're just not together (and I don't do that much because I'm a sap)

what's the fic you've written with the happiest ending?

maybe the sky might not always be blue, for sure....I have a habit of leaving fics in the moment of getting together, and that one tackles the happily ever after a bit more

do you write crossovers?

not really! my old little women modern au fic has some pop-in characters from other louisa may alcott works but I don't think that really counts (I did also dabble in 1D/LM/HP crossovers as like bday presents for fandom friends back in the day but those never made it out of their inboxes lol)

have you ever received hate on a fic?

no, I'm very lucky! I have received the occasional odd "constructive" comment, but I try to take people on good faith that they're trying to be helpful! (I have also gotten a couple of less-than-stellar numerical bookmarks ratings...I am begging people to learn to use private bookmarks if they want to do that)

do you write smut? if so, what kind?

yes...not sure what "what kind" means, but it ranges from decidedly vanilla to somewhat less so...vibes wise it always involves a Lot of Feelings even if those feelings aren't necessarily romantic (though they often are)

have you ever had a fic stolen?

not that I know of!

have you ever had a fic translated?

nope!

have you ever co-written a fic before?

not yet....ro and I have thrown around a couple of ideas but we haven't managed it yet. I'd be interested in trying though!

what's your all-time favorite ship?

this is an interesting question to me,,, I feel like there are different answers to this depending on if it's like...in media in general, in fic, in rpf, in f1......I will answer with Enjolras/Grantaire, bc baby 11 year old jo who had never heard the term "slash" and barely knew the concept of fanfiction read the brick and then got pissed when she was R in a drama camp production and was blocked to have a girlfriend in Drink With Me, because "obviously he's in love with enjolras"

what's a wip that you want to finish but don't think you ever will?

brocedes knight/prince dragonslayers my beloved/beloathed.....I know what it needs to be but it's very different than anything I have ever actually accomplished....

what are your writing strengths?

I think I'm decent at mood and imagery! but honestly I'm not sure....maybe those things only make sense in my head lol. I do know that my fics have made people laugh, which is lovely <3

what are your writing weaknesses?

plot!!! I am bad at writing anything that isn't just vignettes strung together, though I am Working On It....also sometimes I like my dialogue but other times I feel it verges on hokey....also someday I would love to be able to write something longer than 12k....or even just write something 10k again.....

what are your thoughts on writing dialogue in other languages in a fic?

it's tricky! I do think it's easy to fall into tropey-ness with it, especially in a fandom where it's common (eg, this one)...I definitely do it some, though! and I did enjoy putting sentences in french/spanish/italian in whole cloth in i can feel the sun on you, bc it was supposed to mimic the feeling of watching roman holiday

what was the first fandom you wrote for?

first fic I ever published was for 1D asldjfa;jf (and was.......far and away the worst case of just really obviously projecting onto some dudes I have ever done.....but I was 18 and my mom had just died so)

first fic I ever wrote, before I even knew it was called that, was definitely either anne of green gables or lord of the rings, in fourth grade

what's a fandom/ship you haven't written for yet but want to?

someday i will write the perfect his dark materials fic and actually know peace.....also in f1 terms I would love to Actually write galex!! i love them so much that it's sort of weird that I haven't written them

what's your favorite fic you've written?

it depends on the day! right now I would say either you don't have to know that it's haunted or would have loved you (in a day or two)

no-pressure tags: @oscarpiastriwdc @blorbocedes @kritischetheologie @wewentcarracing @gayferrari @foggieststars and anyone else who wants to do it! I have no idea who's done this one already

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this is such a massive undertaking and i’m so excited to follow along! i’ve always loved comparing translations, especially with les mis because there’s so many and my familiarity with the content and context adds extra layers. sometimes the most concise translation isn’t the “best” to me because grampa vic is not often a concise man! i’ve always liked wilbour even though it’s a bit clunky because it feels so Of The Time to me. it’s fascinating seeing where choices diverge (and the denny shaming is very funny). i don’t know that it’s worth the effort but it would be interesting to see the stats on how often different translators work was chosen! thank you for doing this!

ahh thank you for your kind words!

I'm interested in translation in general, but I agree, particularly for lm! There's just so much to work with. I too am a Wilbour fan, but of course every translator has their moment of glory-- even Denny who I do so love to poke at-- as well as gripes I have with them. Such a interesting pool of translations this book has got!

I am definitely going to compile how much each translator's work is favored-- I am planning summary posts after each book's results roll in, it'll just be a sec before I can get em fully organized. I'm also thinking I'll feature some comments from my lovely readers, because I've been loving reading people's opinions in the tags :D but certainly I'll run the numbers on em!