#mercy lunar new year

[goobersnooberts]

[overwatchfanskinarchive]

Hanzo, Genji, Mercy, and Kiriko New Years by 影歌歌歌鸽了

[janayuga]

My Lifeweaver crumbs 🌸😢

[thanatos-requiem]

A rough concept of Lifeweaver inspired by Mercy's upcoming Lunar New Year skin. I really hope he gets a skin with as much cultural significance as this. It's such a beautiful concept and Mercy got it 😭

[a-la-campanella]

Lunar New Year post! To all who celebrate, may the new year be full of happiness for you!

I have many gripes about the writing for the High Cloud Quintet, but what I find the most fascinating about their fallout is where it places Jing Yuan, and where it will lead him into the future.

Baiheng is dead. She's gone, and while there is very strong evidence (nothing explicitly confirmed, but we're working with what we can get) pointing to traces of Baiheng in Bailu, part of the reincarnation process is acknowledging that Bailu is a whole other person separated from her past/any other life she may have lived and with different memories/experiences. The future is thus: she will be the next High Elder for the Xianzhou Luofu, and she's content with her position as a doctor and healer to those in need of treatment. She doesn't seem to have any big dreams, and what she has now is enough for her. As part of her duty and the expectations of her, she'll stay with the Xianzhou Alliance until she has to reincarnate. It doesn't matter if she one day grows to dream bigger, the choice is now robbed from her like it was from Dan Feng.

Dan Heng is content with his own life. He's suffered enough as it was when he was first born in this name, escaped the Luofu, running away from Blade across space, and made his way to forge a life he can call his own on the Astral Express. He has no need nor want to be shacked by his past, and he can live freely without the shadow of Dan Feng hanging over him. I'm curious where he'll be centuries down the line, given how long his expected lifespan is, and the lifespans of his companions being... probably nowhere as long. But until they part ways, Dan Heng will have them by his side. Of the current Express Crew, Pom-Pom would still be around, and maybe the Trailblazer too. Dan Heng might die and never reincarnate, or he might someday return to the Xianzhou Luofu again to settle down when it's his turn to return to an egg and be reborn anew once more. Given what he's like, I don't see him going out with mara.

Blade was Yingxing, and now he's Blade. Yingxing is dead in the sense that the person he used to be is no more, and now, Blade is just a blade. Mara haunts him in a way that tortures him, and he'll take the path Elio promises if it'll grant him freedom. Living for so long is his punishment/price, and death will be a mercy. He'll die one day, I'm sure, though I'm fairly confident that day will be far off, too. He has the Stellaron Hunters to keep him company for now, and if Elio delivers his promise, Blade will see his peace in the end with them. After the events on the Luofu, I think it's safe to say his arc will conclude with him moving on from chasing a past that no longer wants him, and breaking free—accepting a certain finality—in what has passed, and what will come (his death).

Jingliu is the only other character besides Jing Yuan to keep her name from those times, but she's mara-stricken like Blade and has her own agenda now. She has no personal attachments anymore to anyone from her High Cloud Quintet days, not even her own disciple Jing Yuan, nor does she display interest in associating with them now. She'll pass one day like Blade, I'm sure. They may not go out the same way though; regardless, I don't expect her to do much even if she does live on after her role has been fulfilled (to participate in the war/"game" against Yaoshi and end the abominations of Abundance once and for all).

Jing Yuan was, and still is, shaped by the people around him. The person he was when the High Cloud Quintet was around isn't the same person he is now, but in some ways, he still shares that identity. He's fond of Dan Heng and still cares about Baiheng (now assumed to be Bailu). Jing Yuan used to dream of being a Galaxy Ranger touring the universe in the name of justice, and instead took to rising the ranks in the Cloud Knights, learning to protect what's left of his home on the Luofu, and becoming a leader who valiantly fights for peace. I'm not quite sure how he'll go out. Maybe in battle, against the Abundance; or maybe Yanqing, trained to surpass him, will be called to cut him down; or maybe he'll retire peacefully, spending his days peeling tangerines and basking under the Sun, until he's older and more gray, and one day, gone.

And it's just so interesting to me, because Jing Yuan is so kind, and it does not make him worse off. Unlike Blade and Jingliu, he doesn't let the mara consume him, and focuses on his happiness instead of the despair. His grief is quiet, he carried the weight of a world on his shoulders, but he still finds the time to take in a disciple and teach him the way of the sword, to visit the doctor who reminds him of an old and dear friend, and to make way for banter with his next-in-line. He's outlived the rise and fall of civilizations during that time, alone and not-alone, surrounded by the people he had and has now, and may live long enough to outlive several more.

Everyone has moved on from those years together, and their pasts may connect, but their futures all lead in vastly different directions. I'm sure Jing Yuan has lamented over the past before, but centuries have gone by since. Many things in the world have changed now, and he lives his own life, too. They all do.

Where am I going with this? Who knows. Happy Lunar New Year to all who celebrate and to Jing Yuan especially. As Yanqing might say: 恭喜发财（红包拿来）。

May your red envelopes be packed with extra money so Yanqing can buy that new and fancy dragon-themed sword.

[forasecondtherewedwon]

seven degrees east - chapter one

Fandom: Masters of the Air Pairings: Gale x Bucky; Nash x Helen; more tbd Rating: T (may change) Chapter: 1 / ? Word Count: 3798

Summary: It's 1996. Soundgarden's on the radio, Charles and Diana are headed for divorce, and seven American PhD candidates are studying literature at the University of Thorpe Abbotts in Norfolk, England. Between taking Prof. Harding's summer class and obsessing over their favourite authors, the boys will kick asses when they must, and fall in love if they can.

Spring was about to fall headlong into summer and Bubbles had decided Princess Di was the woman for him. They were all in love with her. Tabloid magazine photos of Diana in black and lavender—torn with care along the crease—decorated the walls of their dorms, overlapping posters for Superunknown and Crimson Tide, pieces they’d had published in the literary journal, and mundane scraps of paper elevated by their status as vessels for the phone numbers of girls they’d met at parties. Naturally, their Princess took supremacy, especially as they expected imminent, official news of her divorce from Charles. Lucky Bubbles.

It was mid-June 1996. They spent their days horny and sunburnt from laying out on the school’s big English lawn. These long stretches of apparent leisure were punctuated by the summer course in which they were all enrolled: “Thoreau’s Walden,” taught by Professor Harding. He was transparently attempting to instill in them a sense of self-reliance alongside an understanding of transcendentalist thought. The class wasn’t mandatory—the rest of their cohort would rejoin them in September—but their small group comprised a brotherhood of dedicated scholars. (Dedicated to having fewer courses to take come fall semester.)

Bubbles was their Great American Novel man, obsessed with Faulkner’s long sentences and Steinbeck’s long books. Crosby envied and lionized his best friend’s focus, but had come to accept that he was irresistibly drawn to the lower-brow, femme-fatale charm of Chandler and Hammett’s hard-boiled novels. Robert “Rosie” Rosenthal was their resident 19th-centuryist, plotting the spread of both his dissertation and his mustache on the fertile—if possibly cursed—intellectual ground of Edgar Allan Poe. Herbert Nash was Rosie’s chronological compatriot. Though he’d begun the doctoral program with a proposed focus on the works of Mark Twain, he had a literary wandering eye for anything that struck him as romantic. In the face of Nash’s flakiness, Curt fought (sometimes physically) for the pure pleasure of reading, but then he was often under the hedonistic, lunar-like sway of Oscar Wilde—a deviation (guided, he claimed, by his Irish heritage) from the later, hedonistic influence of his preferred poison: the Beat Generation.

If their ragtag band of chronic dogear-ers had a leader, it should’ve been Jack Kidd. Kidd was an upper year student, nearly finished with his PhD (unless his PhD finished with him first). He was secretive, perpetually put-upon, and capable of delivering heart-shattering criticism in a tone that made it sound like mercy. In short, he was everything they longed to be. When asked about the subject of his dissertation, he would drop his face into his hands with all the enthusiasm and surrender to gravity of a bridge suicide. In lieu of possessing the middle-aged-divorcé jadedness that seemed to come naturally to Kidd despite his being only 29, the seven younger candidates had taken up smoking the preceding November.

Because they did need a leader to make sure they did things like readings and laundry and correcting their posture after hours spent curled over, under, and around the library’s long oak tables, they had Bucky. And they had Buck, because it was smart to have a backup. “Bucky” was really John, and “Buck” was Gale, and when any of the other five called them out on being pretentious fucks, they would both grin and offer no correction. While John directed his furrowed brow at Lost Generation titans like Hemingway, Stein, and Fitzgerald, Gale was dreamily engrossed in a fin-de-siècle love affair with Henry James. At any given time, at least three of them (including John) were waiting for the pair to realize that who they were actually head over heels for was each other.

They were all students at Thorpe Abbotts—the Norfolk satellite campus of the Connecticut university. They knew people studying Goethe and Voltaire, Tolstoy and Shakespeare and García Márquez, seriously, they did. They just happened to be a collection of Americans reading Americans. In England. For one reason and another, they’d decided to study overseas, intrigued by the allure of matched tuition fees, rainy reading weather, and the proximity to older and fancier universities, which were fun to visit if they were looking to instigate a winnable fight against other easily-provoked academics.

That particular evening, they descended upon a bar favoured by students from the University of East Anglia. John and Rosie had both offered to drive. To decide who’d had to go with John (concealed as who’d wanted to go with John), Crosby had flipped a coin—well, a double-sided Batman pog he’d produced with minor embarrassment after fishing around in his pocket for a coin. As a result, Gale and Curt tumbled from John’s Wrangler (Gale from the passenger’s seat, Curt from the bench in the rear) looking half-drunk already from John’s weaving, lead-footed panache behind the wheel. Rosie pulled up smoothly, with no complaints from Bubbles, who might not have complained even if they’d slid into the parking lot on their roof, Crosby, whose motion sickness had not been triggered, or Nash, who’d ironed a shirt for this outing in hopes of meeting a nice girl. The rest had openly teased him, then tried not to feel self-conscious about their own attire.

“You look like Hugh Grant,” John leveled at Nash when he saw him sweeping his hair back as they made for the bar.

“Thanks.”

“Wasn’t a compliment.”

Fortunately for Nash, he was impervious to most insults. John knew this and took it as licence to tease him all the more.

“Ladies love Hugh Grant,” Nash reasoned.

“Don’t say ladies,” Curt whined. “Fuck’s wrong with you?”

“The thing Hugh Grant has going for him is he’s British,” John explained.

“And he’s a movie star,” Gale offered, nonpartisan.

“Stellar addition, Buck: and he’s a movie star.” He turned back to Nash. “You’re non-movie-star, American Hugh Grant. Capisce?”

“Don’t say capisce.” Curt took out his frustration on the loose chunk of asphalt he booted across the parking lot.

“Ah, don’t listen to him, Nash,” Rosie instructed, slinging an arm around Nash’s neck and hauling him close so his steps stuttered and skipped.

“You look good, Nash,” Gale said.

“Like a real gentleman.”

“Too bad he’s just Nash disguised as a gentleman,” John lamented with a grin.

Nash cracked a telling smile.

“Whaddaya think, Croz?” John demanded. He looked around and found Crosby and Bubbles trailing them, laughing about something that was part of their own conversation. “Croz! Nash in disguise! This some kinda hard-boiled, sleazy villain shit?”

Crosby shrugged.

“Nash is Nash.”

“Nash is Nash,” Bubbles agreed, and then they were all saying it, speaking over one another, until their voices dropped into sync and it turned into a chant as they shoved into the warmth of the bar.

They fell into a booth together, then forced Crosby and Bubbles back out to get the first round since neither of them had driven and even if you tried to send one without the other, they’d both go anyway, as though attached by a tether. They returned with pitchers.

“Croz got carded,” Bubbles gleefully announced, handing out glasses from the stack in his hand.

Everyone awwwed. Crosby erupted in a flaming blush.

“Don’t worry about it, Croz,” Gale told him. Crosby nodded gratefully, but then Gale tacked on, “When I was your age—”

Crosby’s protestation that they were the same age had Rosie laughing until he had tears in his eyes. He tilted sideways into Nash, who did his best to scoot away.

“I love you Rosie, but I will slash your fucking tires if you wrinkle my shirt.”

This just made Rosie laugh harder.

“You alright to drive back?” John checked with Gale, leaning in to speak quietly below the hilarity.

“I gotcha, man.”

John nudged Crosby out of the booth a second time and came back with a pitcher of water for Gale, who’d smoke weed and cigarettes with the rest of them but drew the line at carbonation. Crosby’s hand hesitated between the pitchers of beer and water.

“I’ll drive,” Rosie assured him, brushing away Crosby’s wordless offer with a wave of his hand.

Crosby looked relieved to be let off the hook. He poured himself a beer.

John pointed at Rosie.

“You’re too damn self-sacrificing.”

“Maybe you’re too sac-selfrificing,” Curt countered, making John twist to face him with an expression of extreme indignation.

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“You wanna take this outside?” John squared his shoulders. Even though it was all in play, Gale held out his hand, palm down, suggesting they chill out a little. They’d been bounced from this bar before.

“Might as well stay put,” Curt said. “If I knock you on your ass while you’re already sittin’ down, you got less far to fall.”

John smacked the brim of Curt’s ballcap down over his eyes and they broke into a scuffle in the booth, legs scrabbling beneath the table, Curt giggling wildly as he jerked away from John’s hands while protesting that he couldn’t see. Crosby, sitting on Curt’s other side, attempted to right his hat, but ended up having to dodge Curt’s elbow instead.

“Bets?” Rosie asked.

“What’s on the table?” Bubbles wondered. Somebody’s knee slammed the actual table from underneath and Bubbles’ hand shot out to steady his glass. “Figuratively.”

“Losers have to format the winners’ essay citations.”

“That’s not ba—”

Crosby saw Gale whack the back of his hand into Bubbles’ chest to shut him up, but it was too late. Rosie was grinning.

“And type up their essay.”

They groaned. Bubbles, Nash, and Crosby shook their heads, bowing out, but Gale stuck out his hand for Rosie to shake.

“You’re on,” he said.

“Who’s your money on?” Rosie asked.

“Who d’you think?” Nash cut in.

It really was silly to ask; Gale took John’s side in everything, always. Crosby was going to point that out, begin recalling supporting evidence, but John started fighting really dirty—his hands dove to Curt’s sides, tickling hard, and Curt hopped back. Crosby bailed out of the booth and stood.

“Maybe they should take it outside,” Bubbles observed, reading Crosby’s concern on his face before he could voice it.

Just then, there was a scoff: “Typical.”

John ceased his attack on Curt as they turned to look with the others. Curt fixed his hat. There were three guys standing there, just past Crosby, who took a step towards the table to show his allegiance. Like most people they encountered off the Thorpe Abbotts campus, the trio were British. They looked about their age, maybe a little younger, and enough sheets to the wind not to mind that there were fewer of them than members of the group they’d accosted.

The pause after that single word seemed to go on and on. None of the seven had a doubt in their mind that it was a criticism of their behaviour—their Americanness. The Brits would expect them to get angry, to fly from their booth and jab their impolite American fingers in their faces, wet American spittle spraying from their mouths as they shouted rude American words. They didn’t know that this was what these particular Americans did for fun. That even now, in the pause, they were just deciding how they wanted this one to go.

“Can we help you?” Gale asked calmly, while his compatriots wordlessly downed their drinks.

“We’re just fine,” one of them replied. “Try helping yourselves.”

Gale glanced around at his friends as though confused.

“Did one of you need help with something?” he asked.

Curt had just poured himself a second beer. He held up a finger, signally for everyone to wait as he took a long swallow. He sighed in satisfaction.

“I actually do need help,” he said, looking not at Gale but at the Brits.

“Want us to teach you to tie your shoes?” a different one taunted.

“Nah,” Curt said, tone dangerously placid to the ears of his friends. “Nah, got that one figured out. I actually got a question for you: loserssaywhat?”

The first one frowned, head cocking slightly.

“What?”

Rosie guffawed, prompting the change in the trio’s expressions: superior to insulted. Angry. But Curt was beaming. He took another swallow of beer before slowly enunciating, “Losers. Say. What.”

And then he burped so loudly that Crosby, recounting the story to Kidd later that night, would swear it shook the walls.

“That wasn’t part of the question,” Curt clarified.

The strangers surged towards the booth and Crosby got in their way, Bubbles and Gale jumping up too to put a wall between them and Curt.

Gale said one word to them, and he said it like an order: “Outside.”

“Fucking right, outside,” was thrown back at him.

The three on their feet watched the Brits out the door, then turned back to the group.

“Who’s holding down the fort?” John asked.

“Not me,” Curt said. He clambered from the booth and started shadow boxing. As he ducked and wove, eyes fixed on an invisible opponent, John spun his hat around, brim at the back.

“Let’s all go,” Nash said from his spot against the wall. “Nobody’s gonna…”

He trailed off as his gaze landed on something beyond their prizefighting trickster, beyond the inseparable Bubbles and Crosby, beyond the deep-running still waters of Gale. There was a girl. A beautiful girl. Thick, dark hair, talking with another girl Nash barely noticed. As he watched, she laughed. She was even more beautiful when she laughed.

“Actually, I’ll stay,” he amended distractedly. He tilted his head to see around Curt as Curt decided to add footwork to his routine. “The rest of you can fuck off.”

Rosie looked where Nash was looking and smirked.

“Ah, no way, buddy. Wouldn’t leave you here all alone!”

“No more than three of us can go,” John declared. “It’s not…”

“Sportsmanlike,” Gale supplied.

John snapped his fingers and agreed, “Sportsmanlike.”

“I guess it’s you three then,” Bubbles deduced glumly, glancing between John, Gale, and Curt.

“Sure is,” John said, considerably more gleeful. He rose and clapped Bubbles on the shoulder. “Hang tight.”

“But—”

“If you go, Croz’ll come too, and we can’t go five-against-three; they’ll think we’re chickenshits.”

“Who cares about their opinion?” Crosby wanted to know.

“Me,” Curt said. He stuck out his lower lip in a pout. “They hurt my feelings.”

Crosby rolled his eyes.

“Get the fuck outta here.”

“Yeah, and do us proud!” Rosie shouted at their backs as Gale, Curt, and John trekked towards the exit. John pumped his fist into the air.

When they’d gone, Rosie smiled slyly at Nash.

“So. Are we calling her over here?”

“What?”

“YO!” Rosie yelped at the top of his lungs.

The girl, her friend, and a dozen other people in the crowded bar turned their heads, searching for the source of the sound.

“What the hell?!” Nash blurted.

Rosie frowned at him.

“You think she’s pretty, right?”

“Duh. Look at her—”

“MY FRIEND THINKS YOU’RE PRETTY! YEAH, YOU! BLUE SHIRT!”

“If I wanted her to think I was a total jackass—” Nash began.

“You’ll get your chance. I just got you started. Wave her over.”

“You ever think there’s a reason you don’t have a girlfriend?”

Nash slid along the seat until he was free of them all, though Crosby did offer an encouraging thumbs-up.

“Watch and learn,” he called over his shoulder. He locked eyes with the girl—the beautiful girl, who was miraculously staring back at him with an expression of amusement rather than scorn—as he headed her way.

—

Outside, the tension was thickening. The Brits should’ve gotten some kind of points for holding their ground, John thought, because they looked nervous now that he, Gale, and Curt were all on their feet, not folded up in that booth. He lifted his chin and squared his shoulders to make himself as big as possible. And he smiled, not as massive as Curt though. That seemed to be pissing them off, maybe making them stay: that Curt was full-on grinning.

“Thorpe Abbott?” the mouthiest of the three asked, like an accusation.

“Abbotts, numb nuts,” Curt corrected.

“What do they grade you with there? Scratch-and-sniff stickers?”

“I wish!” John said. There was a threatening gleam in his eyes.

“You know it doesn’t mean anything when they give you all hundreds right? Your degrees don’t mean shit.”

“It actually does mean something,” Curt said. He suddenly sounded so serious that his friends looked at him from the corner of their eyes. “We go in this special room, ’k? Maybe not so fancy as the rooms at wherever you boys go—”

“East Anglia,” was offered.

Curt nodded.

“Yep, Easy Anglia, whatever. But we go in this room and then—true story—this woman shows up. Like, our dean calls her up to let her know another one of us special boys—”

“Us special American boys,” Gale emphasized.

“—got himself another fuckin’ hundred. Takes her maybe half an hour to show up. And then, guess what, you guys?” Curt looked at the befuddled Brits eagerly. “She blows us.”

Their reaction was a blend of highly skeptical and stunned by the turn Curt’s story had taken. Shit’s sake, Curt, John was thinking. This is gonna be a hell of a fight.

“And, you know, she did mention she had a son,” Curt said measuredly, homing in on the mouthy guy now, “but, damn, you’re her spittin’ fuckin’ image.”

The Brits lunged at them.

—

Nash wanted to ask her to dance, to hold her by the hips and sway along to whatever rhythm she chose. He didn’t care if it didn’t match the beat of the music. He didn’t care that no one else was dancing, or that this wasn’t really a place where people did that. “Helen,” she’d said her name was.

“You read much?” he asked stupidly, but he wanted her to like him more than he’d ever wanted anything in his life. More than anyone in the history of humankind had ever even dreamed their descendants could want. The only thing he could think to talk about was books. Talking about books, he could start to sound smart again, reassemble his brain in the background while most of him got lost in Helen’s eyes.

“Yes.”

Nash loved how she said yes. His heart, thumping happily in his chest loved it. The rush of blood to his groin loved it. The sound of “yes” in her mouth. She was American. He tried not to think how easy it would be, the two of them moving back home after school. Or staying here, a pair of expats. Whatever she’d prefer.

“I’m actually studying creative writing.”

“Where?” he asked, starry-eyed.

Her eyes darted to her friend before returning to his face. The reaction said he was being sort of stupid now, but then her expression shifted to something like guilt. She’d felt bad for thinking it. for writing him off so quickly.

“At the University of East Anglia.”

“Oh. So, like, right nearby.”

“Right nearby,” she confirmed. “Hence…” She glanced around. Hence this bar. Hence. Totally. Nash gave her a smile, weak with adoration.

“Why there?” he asked.

“Kazuo Ishiguro studied there. I admire his work.”

“I loved The Remains of the Day.”

Helen smiled at him. The clouds parted. Probably.

“Me too,” she said. “Are you in the arts as well?”

“English,” he told her. “Thorpe Abbotts. Working on my PhD.”

She was sufficiently engaged now that her friend moved off, giving them space.

“What’s your field?”

“American,” he admitted, and she got it, and she laughed. An American studying Americans in England. He shrugged, embracing her reaction.

“Who do you like?”

You. But she’d meant which authors.

“Twain,” Nash said, “and Hawthorne.”

Helen’s eyes lit up.

“Yes! My greatest influences are second-wave. You know, Betty Friedan, Gloria Steinem’s exposé on the Playboy Club, obviously…”

“Well, sure,” Nash said, just keeping up as she spoke in an impassioned rush.

“But I love the early feminists too. Hawthorne and Charlotte Perkins Gilman and Alcott.”

“Little Women!”

“It’s probably still my favourite novel of all time.”

For the first time, Nash took a careful, calculated pause, and he gave her a look. A Nash look. It was a look that usually communicated let’s get out of here, but this time, he wanted more. He’d worn the shirt.

“I’ve never met anybody who was as much of a Jo as you are,” he said, meaning it.

It was noisy, but he heard Helen’s pleased gasp. That she was actually an Amy was something Helen had not yet admitted to herself, and so Nash’s compliment hit its target with full effect. He watched as her lips parted—to thank him? to kiss him? to say some other unforeseen thing that would change his life even further? make him feel the earth move under his feet? did she like Carole King?—but there was a hard tug on his elbow.

Nash turned to find Bubbles standing there. He was the one person Nash wouldn’t snap at for interrupting, and the others knew that. He’d been sent.

“I am so sorry,” Bubbles said, addressing Helen. He was beginning to slur his S’s. “I gotta steal him back for a minute.”

“I swear my friends don’t speak for me,” Nash said as Bubbles physically dragged him away from the conversation. “I know it’s happened twice now, but they don’t!”

Was it worth it, to be removed from Helen’s side and brought back to the booth? Nash was surprised to feel that it almost was—almost—when his eyes landed on their smiling trio of champions. Gale had a cut on his cheek where a fist must’ve connected, or at least glanced off; John had the dark promise of a bruise below one eye; and Curt didn’t have a scratch on him. Nash laughed, shaking his head.

“What was he tryin’ to say though?” John was asking.

“Mumbling some shit about our hundreds,” Gale replied. “Our ‘bloody hundreds.’”

“Yeah,” Curt said. “But it was after I’d clocked him square in the mouth. That’s why he was lispin’. ‘Bloody hundredth,’ it sounded like.” He chuckled. “Bloody hundredth.”

“To the Bloody Hundredth,” Crosby proposed, raising his beer.

Rosie passed Nash his refilled glass, then lifted his own for the toast.

“Bloody Hundredth,” the rest of them intoned.

“And to Princess Diana,” Bubbles’ voice rang out when the rest of them had a glass to their lips. “Wherever she may be tonight.”

Crosby adopted an expression of deep solemnity, but Rosie ruined it by snorting into his water.

“Alright, men,” John addressed them. “Back into the booth. We got some fuckin’ drinking to do.”

“Spoken like a true Hemingway scholar,” Gale observed.

John gave him an affectionate smile.

“I try.”

[gravity-what]

Enjoy some cute dragons for Lunar New Year! 🐉🎆 (this was mostly an excuse to draw the idea I had for Lao Mang Lone soup Omi)

And uh…enjoy an angsty story to go with the drawing??? I’m sorry

Under the cut (and also posted here on Ao3)

“What have you done?”

“Come now, what’s with that face?” Hannibal laughed. In his disgusting tendril a child-sized lizard squirmed and thrashed, trying to claw the vine from where it was wrapped tightly around the creature's neck. Chase couldn’t take his eyes off the scene, his own skin rippling in response. “And here I thought I was doing you a favor! Wuya told me all about that convoluted little plan of yours to get this bean sprout on the Heylin side but, well, take it from someone with experience in this kind of thing. Lao Mang Lone really is the easiest way to go.”

“You- I-“ Chase stuttered, for once not knowing what to say. What to do. The tiny lizard snarled, its claws scraping uselessly against the vine, its tail thrashing in agitation. The frills around its head flaring in anger. The thin skin there was torn and bleeding from where the child had clawed himself. Where Omi had clawed himself.

“What’s the matter? Cat got your tongue.” Hannibal mocked, his disgusting laugh echoing around Chase’s atrium. “Or, I guess in this case, lizard? Kid’s pretty cute isn’t he?” He added, lifting Omi fully off the ground, his snarls getting cut off as he choked and only thrashed more. Something that was bound to only hurt the child if not break his neck. Chase made an aborted movement forward to help but hesitated as he saw the tendril tighten threateningly. “Vicious to boot. Should have seen the way he tore through that little temple of his when he ate the soup. Almost as impressive as you! For such a small size, the kid really packs a punch!”

How had Hannibal managed to do this? What had he done to trick Omi into drinking the Lao Mang Lone soup? Had he even known what he was doing? Had he agreed to this? Chase couldn’t imagine a world where Omi drank the soup willingly -a memory flashed into his mind. a glass and iron cage. The scent of Lao Mang Lone in the air. Someone had to drink it if they wanted to escape- No. No. Omi wouldn’t have. Not here. Not now. Not like this.

“This is some sick joke.” Chase snarled, managing to wipe the shocked and distraught surprise from his face. His gaze turned to Hannibal’s disgustingly smug one, Chase finally able to pull his eyes away from the little dragon. “This isn’t real.” It couldn’t be real. This was something else. Hannibal had the Moby Morpher. It had to be a trick. “I don’t know what you are trying to pull-“

“Well now!” Hannibal cut him off, bringing his other tendril to his chest in a fake act of offense. “Is that any way to respond to a gift?! If you don’t want him, well, I could always use another pet.”

Chase felt panic shoot through him at those words, remembering his own time under Hannibal. Being trapped in this early, feral, state of the Lao Mang Lone. Being at the mercy of this disgusting bean. A single claw out of place leading to punishments thousands of times worse than the offense.

Chase clenched his jaw. Trick or not, he couldn’t leave Omi to that fate. Chase knew he had already shown his hand in this. Had shown it ages ago to Wuya when he had been too stupidly secure in the idea that he had managed to lock Hannibal away for good. And now, here he was, back again and having worked Chase into a corner with only one way forward.

“A gift implies he is being given to me for free,” Chase acknowledged, his hand’s fisted tight at his sides, trembling with held-back rage. “But I know you, Hannibal. What is the price of this so-called gift.”

He watched as Hannibal’s decrepit smile grew, showing off his broken and rotting teeth. “Well, now that you mention it, I suppose there are a few things I want���”

[some bonus additional context for the art: I imagine this image is a few months after Omi was transformed and in that time Chase ‘visited’ the temple to make sure that what Hannibal told him was true (it was) and stole the reversing mirror from Spicer to make sure Omi wasn’t just transformed via the Moby Morpher and had something done to his mind (the reversing mirror changed nothing) and then proceeded to check everything to make sure that there was no other possible explanation for this and finally, after he could no longer deny that Omi had truly taken the Lao Mang Lone Soup, he gave Omi more of it to help him start to work towards regaining himself and the above is the outcome. A moment of clarity from his little one. Omi’s still not all there. still has no idea who he is or what he is, but for a second he is no longer feral or hungry and Chase gets this small moment before it eventually slips away.]

[impossiblesuitcase]

I know this type of fic will seem strange, but do you remember where Cinder in the first book says that everyone will be aware of what Kai does, and that he will forget her, if this happened as an alternate universe, do you really believe that Kai forgot? of it, or remember it as nostalgia for what could have been as couple

Thanks your for your answer

I intended for this to be a five sentence response. Ha.

(Remember?)

He doesn’t remember her.

Granted, he doesn’t even remember what it feels like to take a full, unstrained breath. Kai is a busy teenager, a grieving son, an ill-prepared emperor and then the happiest widower alive. He can’t pretend to not be overjoyed by his wife’s untimely passing after her brief but bloody one-year stint as empress. The Earthen population didn’t seem to mind much either when the evil Lunar queen was assassinated in her bed by a group of revolting malcontents.

Kai only remembers her when the storm takes mercy on them and calms. The girl at the marketplace. Who’d never worn the gloves he’d given her to the ball she hadn’t attended. The brown eyes he’d never seen again. As the New Beijing Market celebrates a new era of peace with streamers and lanterns and sticky buns, Kai is pulling on his grey hoodie and weaving through the crowds to an unmarked booth. Instead he finds the musty, dark store replaced by a coffeé vendor. The nearby sellers tell him the young mechanic skipped town.

(Kai does remember her joking prod in the elevator, offering up that she was planning to run away to Europe. Now, Kai doesn’t think it was all that much of a joke.)

He searches for her, briefly. Her name turns up no more net results than what had been there the first time he’d sought her services. In checking government records he learns that her guardian reported the disappearance, inciting a police investigation. He has his own staff put on the case, who probably interpret this as a conscientious initiative to apprehend a fugitive as any responsible emperor would. 

Reading the conclusions from the fruitless search by his agents, this is where Kai learns that Linh Cinder is a cyborg.

Something blankets him. Not...disgust or revulsion. Thick, encompassing understanding. He’s near laughter when it strikes him precisely between his third and fourth ribs because he knows that it doesn’t matter if he finds her.

The gloves. The obfuscation. A cyborg, an emperor. This is why she rejected him.

After this, the expressed need to find find find her feels vain. Find her and what? Tell her that—although he likes her—a cyborg would never be accepted by the public as his partner? Then he’d be tearing her away from whatever sanctuary she’s found herself in and subjecting her to capture by the authorities. Because she has cut out her ID chip—illegal. Fled the country without a permit—illegal. Disobeyed orders from her guardian—illegal for cyborgs. Whatever Imperial pardon he could try to extend would be nullified by the Cyborg Protection Act.

It doesn’t matter. She hasn’t been found. He’s no luck at searching for things anyway. That’s why he gave up on Selene. What’s one more thing to give up on?

So Kai doesn’t remember her. But he does revise the Cyborg Protection Act. He is appalled to discover that—despite having Levana’s antidote in his tenuous possession—the cyborg draft is still in operation. Luna is not a trustworthy government under regent Sybil Mira, they fearmonger. They might still need to develop an antidote of their own, they reason.

Both Earth and Luna are barely refraining from seeking blood as it is. After Levana was assassinated, Luna declared full-scale war on Earth, killing hundreds of thousands. Earth retaliated by detonating bombs on the craters of the moon, threatening that next time they wouldn’t spare the inhabited domes. The ceasefire went as follows: Luna and Earth would not intermingle. Luna would provide Earth with the Letumosis antidote in exchange for Earth sending Luna their desperately-needed supplies. No one deemed this agreement as trustworthy. No one had better ideas.

His decision to end the draft is met with mixed response. Kai just secretly hopes that Cinder is watching, holed up in her new musty, dark booth in her new European city with a flicker of pride.

Years past. Funnily enough, Kai learns that—at some point—pretending to forget and forgetting are not so dissimilar.

But sometimes he sees a malfunctioning android down a palace hall and remembers her steady gloved hands on Nainsi. Sees a woman with almost the right shade of brown in her hair and eyes and skin but never close enough. Yet each time, he collects himself, shakes his head and doesn’t give in, and when he marries a second time to a woman he actually wants to be with, his wife’s radiant smile expels any romantic thought of any other girl that has ever crossed his mind.

— — — 

Fourteen years. That’s how long it takes for his loose threads to finally fray. Kai is in his office being briefed by Torin for an upcoming public statement by his cabinet. It has taken fourteen years after Levana’s death to fully uncover all the scrupulously concealed records of the atrocities she committed. As former empress, her crimes have to be reported by the Eastern Commonwealth, though no reasonably-minded Earthen would attribute her crimes to anyone but her own wicked self.

This report intrigues him. It’s not the usual analytics of Levana’s sins against the Earthen public, rather a detailed list of all the Lunars she victimised.

“Why are we reporting this?” Kai asks Torin, keeping his daughter from bouncing off his lap with steady hands. “What Levana did to the Lunar citizenry is beyond our scope of responsibility.”

“Not those on Luna, Your Majesty,” Torin informs. “This report refers to the illegal Lunar refugees who were hiding on Earth.”

Kai vaguely recalls Levana screeching once about how she would kill all the Lunars he had insubordinately smuggled into the country. He hadn’t believed that there were any Lunars on Earth at that naïve eighteen, but a thirty-three-year-old Kai is not surprised. He scrolls past the initial pages of exposition and gets right to the list of victims. He wants a number. How many Lunars were there really on Earth? That day on the balcony, when Levana had claimed that there had been a Lunar among those protestors—had it been true?

It’s page eight that he sees her name.

Linh Cinder. Cyborg. Lunar. Licensed mechanic in New Beijing. Records found to be falsified. True age unknown. True name unknown. Date of immigration unknown.

Cyborg. Lunar.

Kai’s hands are shaking. He places his daughter on the ground. “Torin,” he wheezes, “take her to her mother.”

His daughter’s soft, “Daddy? Was wrong?” goes unanswered.

Once they’ve left the room, Kai is alone with the horror lying in his hands. He clicks on her profile and a full page with her name and portrait appears. It’s a mugshot, but without the official stamp of the Earthen Union law enforcement, he knows it was Levana’s own team of minions doing the arresting. Her hair is loose, glossy and slick. Her eyes defiant but sunken into dark sockets. Her cheeks are full. She was not starving, wasting away in poverty. Evidently she did manage to make a life for herself on the run.

The biography is short. Linh was reported missing by her guardian on 28 August 126 T.E. at 08:31. CCTV footage shows her driving a second-era automobile from New Beijing to France over the course of 8 days. Linh hid in Nice for 7 months using a false ID chip and started a small mechanic business. Records of an apartment lease were found under the false identity. She was discovered by Lunar authorities when a mandatory Letumosis blood test identified Lunar genealogy in her genome. She was swiftly sentenced and executed without a trial on an unknown date for crimes of illegal departure from Luna.

That’s it. The only information. It limns a tale of another victim of the tyrant with not a stroke of sympathy. Kai thrusts down the port, clawing his hands through his hair.

Cyborg. Lunar. Executed.

He calls his wife.

The line clicks immediately. “Honey, is everything okay?” asks his wife, concern cooling her timbre. “Torin said you were all out of sorts.”

His words are faint. “Hey, love, do you remember that girl I liked before you?”

He can hear her smile. “The mechanic?”

“Yeah.”

"What about her?" her voice heaves and Kai hears a small giggle; Torin has brought their daughter back to their quarters. His wife is picking up the heavy three-year-old.

He has no strength to censor himself, even with young ears present. “She’s dead. Levana killed her.”

A long silence. The thread being pulled, pulled, pulled as the fraying creeps up to the heart of it. The girl whispers to her mother, “who Mummy? Who’s Daddy talking ‘bout?”

Her mother doesn’t explain. “Oh, love, I’m so sorry,” she consoles plaintively in that genuine lilt he knows is sincere. His superlatively gracious wife has never judged him for his grief over the lost cyborg, for regretting he couldn’t help the troubled young girl from a bad home. Never has she assigned ulterior motives of him mourning ‘the one that got away’ in some jealous plea for validation. 

He says nothing. He had forgotten her brown eyes, her smile and her gloves. The sarcasm and the pessimism. Each detail had slipped away and now a single photo, an unuttered apology, is trying to resuscitate the dead.

“Are you okay? Do you want to talk about it?”

Kai reclaims his port and returns to the cover page. It’s entitled: A Comprehensive Account of the Genocide of Lunar Refugees by Queen Levana Blackburn: Names and Implications.

A name. An implication. That’s all she’d be, immortalised in a forgettable list. After the cover page, a number is bolded.

3,582.

The number of Lunar victims. Miniscule compared to Earth’s population. Cinder was almost certainly the only Lunar Cyborg on the list. An oddity. A friendly statistical anomaly.

Never meant to exist. Always meant to be out of reach.

“Kai?”

“It’ll be fine,” he promises, convincing himself of it. “I’ll be fine.”

“You’ll be fine?” she repeats.

That picture is burnt in his retinas; Cinder, forever sixteen. He, now so much older. He doesn’t mourn a lost love. He didn’t love her; he didn’t know her. He mourns an abandoned child who never even knew that someone was looking for her.

Kai exhales slowly and rests his port on the desk next to his wedding photo and his father's signet ring. 

“I’ll be fine,” he affirms, “You know, I don’t really remember her.”

— — — 

@cindersassasin @hayleblackburn @spherical-empirical @salt-warrior @just2bubbly @gingerale2017 @icarusignite @kaider-is-my-otp @slmkaider @luna-maximoff-22 @cosmicnovaflare @kaixiety @snozkat @mirrorballsss @skinwitch18 @vincentvangothic @bakergirl13 @wassupnye @linh-cindy @therealkaidertrash21

[yujeong]

VegasPete and Poetry - A few examples

I discovered a beautiful Greek poetry collection recently, which I finished reading last night, and I'd like to share some of the poems with you. (Keep in mind that I personally did the translations, in case some parts seem a bit nonsensical.) 1) Internal Journey (this one is the same I used for this text post, slightly altered) I'm checking out the old wound to make sure it's still running on the skin passing the baton to the next self once I get tired completely of circling myself. "This pain will be useful" I say and put another tick on the ledger not forgetting any. 2) Minimal Condition The body is measured with body and it needs proof ruined breaths melted kisses and the flavor of sweat. The body is measured with body but my body is torn apart by yours its lines are hanging from your gaps like cut wires and it's not trembling it doesn't bear marks it's spread infinite without finding you and there's nothing anymore that proves I am a body. 3) Blond Solar Generator I could try explaining to you how we got here. I could try telling you about fate or luck about the unbelievable way bodies move inside a universe of explosions and colors and the incomprehensible synergy of moments that somehow became our moments. I could try explaining to you the purgatory solar light I saw in your eyes when you looked at me and the rare kindness of your soul in yellow ultraviolet. How did we get here? I will try to explain to you how you were a bittersweet fruit and I had the need of you in my mouth crowned clarity and persistence that come with years of failure. How did we get here? Shameful needed attraction real and urgent non-negotiable filled with the energy of numerous lunar cycles of loneliness and unnecessary exaggerations coincidental touches, crossroad of gazes and understanding because we exchanged a cigarette of good will and mercy kissing smoke into each other's mouths until dawn drunk with words and the unsaid of the scheme. How did we get here? I could try explaining to you and you may believe I had control; at first I believed so, too. 4) Delayed Coating Come here. Or I kneel, it doesn't matter. I want to lick the sarcasm off your fingers. Later, you tell me the joke of the flesh. 5) Cut/Me (rough translation because the actual title is a wordplay combining Greek and English) Neck and flesh stretched out with teeth I embroider my hunger for him I rip his form to pieces I engrave his skin at his place of worship I cut and disrespect eros' holy bread I injure asking like a cesarean to find me. (The poetry collection is called "They're wearing last year's clothes like brand new" - once again a rough translation - and it's written by Spyros Goulas.)

[oddfaun]

Justice for Lifeweaver !! The Thai character should be getting the Thai skin

Glad my Asian rep, Mercy Overwatch, got her 5th skin for Lunar New Year /s

[a-forbidden-detective]

What to do in Kamakura: the sightseeing guide or something…

The Kamakura Station, real and the manga versions

It is said to be less than an hour from Tokyo by train and one of the ancient cities in Japan along with Kyoto. Because of the countless shrines and temples, it is called the Kyoto of the East.

So where do you think the gang is going for a sightseeing ?

1) The Great Buddha of Kamakura. The Amida Buddha, which “referred to in Sanskrit as Amitabha Tathagata—the Buddha of Limitless Light, sits upon a lotus pedestal with his hands forming the mudra of meditation,” stands 11.4 meters on the grounds of Kotokuin Temple.

2) Hase Temple. It is said to the temple of the Jodo sect, one of two old sects that brought Buddhism to Japan, and in there resides the “famous eleven-headed statue of Kannon, the goddess of mercy.”

3) Enoshima is an island that has shrines, an aquarium, caves, an observatory tower and a beach that is very popular during summer where surfers like to go.

Searching for possible Lunar New Year festivities in Kamakura city owing to the many Shinto shrines and Buddhist temples located there, I encountered this passive aggressive information on this unofficial website.

Hari kuyo {hah-re-koo-yoh} at Egara Tenjin, 8th February

Hari is literally a needle, and Hari Kuyo is a memorial service in honor of used needles just like the Fude Kuyo (calligraphy brush memorial service). Nowadays, young women do not use needles, nor do they know how to sew. Until a couple of decades ago, however, needles had been one of the most important tools women had to use. Sewing is a technique required of women to master before marriage. The memorial service for needles was thus started years ago and it is still honored in various shrines.

I’ve heard of the funeral rite and a Buddhist temple for discarded dolls in Kyoto, but broken needles? Fascinating. This is in keeping with their animist tradition.

Source

[cosmiccannibalcamille]

YOUR 2024 Eclipse Season Survival Guide

     Mark your calendars, eclipse season is upon us. In just a few short days, 2024 Eclipse season ~officially~ begins with the Full Moon Lunar Eclipse in Libra on March 25 and ends with the New Moon Solar Eclipse in Aries on April 8. You might already be thinking, “Wait. What EVEN is Eclipse Season and why should I care?” Tbh, that’s not an easy question to answer. Because eclipses and, therefore, eclipse season is a MAJOR, loaded topic.      

     To get a little technical, eclipses occur when the luminaries—the Sun and Moon—align with the Earth in specific ways, resulting in a temporary obscuration of the Sun or Moon. Eclipses typically come in pairs—solar & lunar. Solar eclipses mark powerful beginnings and are potent for starting new chapters or projects. They often coincide with significant life events and can bring sudden changes or revelations. Lunar eclipses, on the other hand, represent endings, culminations, or turning points. They illuminate areas of our lives that need adjustment or release.

     Eclipses are potent game-changers. They often coincide with pivotal moments, both personally and collectively, and can trigger major shifts in consciousness, events, and circumstances. Eclipses can bring new people into your life, put you on a new career path, and bring an ending to a toxic relationship. They catalyze change, transformation, growth, and release. And they almost always pave the way for new beginnings and evolutionary leaps. That’s why they are feared. That is why they are so chaotic and crazy and…That is why they are MAJOR.

     That’s also precisely why I created the 2024 Eclipse Season Survival Guide. Part masterclass, part horoscope reading, the 2024 Eclipse Season Survival Guide is YOUR key to understanding, working with, and (yes) surviving this year’s ultra rocky and oh-so chaotic Aries-Libra eclipses. (And these eclipses are REALLY rocky, esp. the Solar Eclipses. Yikes.) From decoding the themes and planetary influences to understanding the unique astrology occurring at the precise moment of each 2024 eclipse, this survival guide is truly a must-have.

This Eclipse SZN Survival Guide is for YOU if:

You're feeling lost, wary, fearful, and anxious AF about the upcoming eclipses and YOU NEED someone to tell you it’ll all be fine.

You're struggling with turbulent partnerships, unresolved conflicts and excessive people-pleasing, and you don’t know why.

You're ready to embrace change with open arms and harness its transformative power.

You're feeling lost or uncertain about your path forward, and you’re seeking clarity, stability, and direction.

You want to make the most of this eclipse season.

You're tired of being at the mercy of life’s ups and downs and are ready to step into your power.

Count me in

    With every challenge comes an opportunity for growth and expansion. And I won’t lie, these eclipses are stirring up emotions, challenges, and feels for everyone. But how are you supposed to deal with these emotions? How are YOU going to cope with the chaos and craziness that eclipse season brings?

    The 2024 Eclipse Season Survival Guide provides insights tailored to YOUR sign to help you navigate these challenging dynamics with grace and understanding. (It also has in-depth audio readings for each of the Rising signs to help YOU find clarity amidst the cosmic storm.) This guide will help you seize the opportunities hidden within the chaos of the eclipses and leverage them to create positive change in your life.   

    So, instead of fearing the unknown, you can embrace change with open arms and harness its transformative power. Instead of feeling lost or uncertain about your path forward, you can gain the clarity you seek, you can find your direction, find your path, and find solace via learning. This survival guide will inspire you to lean into the winds of change and trust in the process of evolution and growth! It’s packed with insights into the themes and energies at play in your life, to help YOU discover how to align with your highest potential.

    The Aries-Libra eclipses are inviting you to step into your power and embrace your authentic self. This survival guide will empower you to stand tall in your truth, assert your boundaries, and reclaim your confidence, your passion, and your power in every area of your life. This 2024 Eclipse Season survival guide will equip you with the tools, knowledge, and mindset shifts needed to navigate the storms of life with resilience, grace, and unwavering optimism. So that you can go beyond merely surviving the chaos of the eclipses: you can thrive.

I'm SO Ready to Thrive

    I hope you seize this opportunity to take control of YOUR fate, to learn, grow, and put the worries about eclipse season to rest. More importantly, I hope you’re taking care of yourself!

Sincerely,

[overwatchfanskinarchive]

Tiger Mercy by teru_tale

[hellishtrickster]

Full Moon

Merry Christmas @hollowshadowwolf/ @oneandahalfwolf!!!! I hope you’re having a fantastic day!!!!

❄️❄️❄️

“WHERE IS IT?!?! WHERE IS THE BEAST?!?!”

Orianna huffed quietly. Anyone who might have been close might have thought the unnaturally large hound had laughed. But no one was near her. She’d been playing with these hunters for almost an hour.

She and Ben had known they were coming for them on the full moon. The hunters were clearly inexperienced, and the were creatures had caught their scent, and seen their tracks a few days before the full moon.

The sibling duo put their heads together to strategise after they became aware of them. They had no choice but to transform on the full moon. The hunters knew this, but what they couldn’t know is that both were-creatures had full control of themselves regardless of the full moon. And neither the Hound nor the Wolf would allow the hunters to get to their cabin, their den. This mountain range was theirs. It didn’t matter if you asked the Tiefling and the Wolf-Kin or the Hound and the Wolf. They’d carved out this territory for their own peace. A place to come back to, to call home when they weren’t adventuring.

On this night, under Lady Lunar’s full light it would be the Hound and the Wolf answering the challenge. The hunters wouldn’t be making it out alive.

Per the strategy Ori had been playing with the Hunters. Appearing and then disappearing into the darkness. Despite the Were Hellhound always burning and putting out smoke, she had better stealth than most creatures could claim. She could hear Ben circling closer, ready to make the hunters regret their choices when they were tired and realised there were two were creatures to handle. They were getting close to that now.

Orianna rose from her crouching position and made her final pass making sure to sow chaos through the group as she ran through them. She could feel the silvered tips of arrows fly over her, and a silvered chain narrowly missed her flank.

The Hound could hear their panting, and their hearts beating double-time in fear. They definitely weren’t experienced hunters for her to be able to corral them like this. Especially given that her control over the Hound was so new. Orianna had almost a year of controlled transformations under her belt but that was nothing in the grand scheme of things, and she was still learning a lot.

As she ran to safety, Orianna put her nose to the air; quickly finding Ben’s scent. Following it, she found them in a glade. As she slowed and walked closer to them, she shook her great, horned head, chuffing as she did.

“They’re ready. They’re scared.”

Ben growled back quietly, flicking their ears back and forth.

“You made it sound easy from here. Silver?”

Ori chuffed again, twitching her snout.

“Lots, but their aim is shit.”

Ben let out a series of chuffs as though they were laughing. Inexperienced hunters had made the mistake of entering these ranges many times before. One experienced party was almost completely wiped out with only a few of them making it out with melted weapons. No experienced hunters had bothered to come after that. A well bonded pack, even one as small as theirs wasn’t worth the risk in most cases.

Ben got up from their position, their black shaggy form slightly larger than their sister’s sleeker one. Especially now that Ori had figured out how to help them put on weight. They were doing much better and even their healing factor had improved. They rumbled at their sister as they turned away from her.

“Let’s take them out. I’d like to go for a run before the moon goes down.”

Orianna rumbled her agreement and ran in the opposite direction to her sibling. They’d planned for this. Come at the hunters from two different angles, and then tear them apart.

Neither canine had much mercy for werewolf hunters. They were the reason why Orianna had been turned in the first place. Had endured painful transformations and hard lessons over the last few years, putting both of their life goals on hold.

Orianna circled around the hunters to come in from their left side. This time she made an effort to actually hit them with her paws and rip them apart. Her body temperature raised and it began to melt the weapons in her vicinity.

The scent of fear was pungent in the air, and it only got worse as a loud howl sounded from the hunters’ right flank. Another were creature to join the fight.

Ben burst through the tree line, jaws snapping left and right. They had mastered killing their enemies in one bite. A task Orianna was still mastering. The last thing she wanted was a werewolf she needed to teach, or worse a were hellhound like herself. It wasn’t clear what the transformation of anyone she bit would be. By all accounts, she should have been a werewolf with Ben’s bite.

The canine pair made quick work of the hunters, quickly burying them along with whatever silver they could bury at this moment. They’d bury the rest of the poisonous metal tomorrow when it had hardened again, and they could do it with gloves on.

Refusing to waste any further time, the pair ran into the trees. Happy howls echoed through the mountains as the pair ran, and hunted to their hearts’ content. In these mountains, and with controlled transformations, full moons were a happy occasion. There was nothing left to fear now that they could both remain consciously in control under a full moon, and life was filled with fresh opportunities.

[ash-and-books]

Rating: 5/5

Book Blurb:

“You will bow before this queen.” —Sara Raasch, New York Times bestselling author of Night of the Witch

“Revenge and justice have never been so satisfying!” — Marissa Meyer, #1 New York Times bestselling author of the Lunar Chronicles

In this riveting historical thriller inspired by true-life events, Belladonna meets Bridgerton as revenge, romance, and twisted secrets take center stage in Victorian England’s royal court when Sally, a kidnapped African princess and goddaughter to Queen Victoria, plots her way to take down the monarchy that stole her from her homeland.

A young lady can take only so many injuries before humiliation and insult forge a vow of revenge. . . .

The year is 1862 and murderous desires are simmering in England. Nineteen-year-old Sarah Bonetta Forbes (Sally), once a princess of the Egbado Clan, desires one thing above all else: revenge against the British Crown and its system of colonial "humanitarianism," which stole her dignity and transformed her into royal property. From military men to political leaders, she’s vowed to ruin all who’ve had a hand in her afflictions. The top of her list? Her godmother, Britain’s mighty monarch, Queen Victoria herself.

Taking down the Crown means entering into a twisted game of court politics and manipulating the Queen’s inner circle—even if that means aligning with a dangerous yet alluring crime lord in London’s underworld and exploiting the affections of Queen Victoria’s own son, Prince Albert, as a means to an end. But when Queen Victoria begins to suspect Sally’s true intentions, she plays the only card in Victorian society that could possibly cage Sally once again: marriage. Because if there’s one thing Sally desires more than revenge, it’s her freedom. With time running out and her wedding day looming, Sally’s vengeful game of cat and mouse turns deadly as she’s faced with the striking revelation that the price for vengeance isn’t just paid in blood. It means sacrificing your heart.

Inspired by the true story of Sarah Forbes Bonetta, Queen Victoria’s African goddaughter, The Queen’s Spade is a lush and riveting historical thriller for fans of This Ravenous Fate, A Dowry of Blood, and Grave Mercy.

Review:

A historical thriller mixed in with the Count of Monte Cristo and inspired by the true story of Sarah Forbes Bonetta, Queen Victoria's African goddaughter. Revenge, murder, and freedom are all on the line as a young princess is kidnapped from home and taken as a "gift" to the British Queen herself, Queen Victoria. After witnessing her friend be murdered and being humiliated herself, Sarah Bonetta Forbes (Sally) has spent years plotting her revenge against her captors... memorizing their names and plotting their demise. While she might look like the perfect transformed princess and goddaughter of the queen, beneath her dignified and royal manor lies a seething young woman who will get her hands as dirty as possible to exact revenge against those who took her. Sally has spent years forced to endure degrading and racist slights against her, yet as she is now 19 it is time to put her plans into motion starting with the captains who stole her. Having made herself an integral part of the queen's inner circle she will manipulate, kill, and frame anyone she needs to in order to finally get rid of her biggest enemy of all: the Queen of Britain. Along for her journey is a handsome crime lord with his own agenda and Sally must also face off against another person who seeks revenge against her... with so many schemes, so many moving plots and one wrong move could cost her everything she's worked for.... the game has begun and Sally must find a way to exact revenge right before the Queen forces her to be married off.... with a ticking clock and enemies and betrayals at every turn, the bodies are going to start dropping. I am a huge fan of revenge stories and the Count of Monte Cristo is one of my all time favorite books ever. When I first read the premise of this book I was absolutely intrigued by the fact that it was inspired by a real life figure and honestly this book blew it out of the park. From the first chapter in the story gripes you and has you anxiously awaiting the next twist and turn of the story. I loved Sally, I loved her viciousness, I loved her strength and just how far she would go. This was a fantastic read that really captivates you and has you holding on until the last chapter, hell I could have even gone with a whole 10 more chapters or even a sequel to see where Sally goes (even if the author decided to fictionalize the ending). I really had so much fun reading this and would highly recommend it for fans of revenge stories and political thrillers~!

Release Date: January 14,2025

Publication/Blog: Ash and Books (ash-and-books.tumblr.com)

*Thanks Netgalley and HarperCollins Children's Books | HarperCollins for sending me an arc in exchange for an honest review*

[lostsoulau-ask]

Favorite holiday?

Hoo! Thats interesting!

Comet loves the New Year's festivities (Solar and Lunar New Year :]) alongside everything that got fire works in them.

Buddy loves Chrismas! Its a comforting day alongside Shard, Crowny and the peoples he made friends with! Theres also Valentines day its a nice day with him and his mouse boi!

If Crowny had a clear consept of what a hollyday is, she would love Thanksgiving and Easter! And even more April fools day. For her Thanksgiving is a "lots of free food" day, easter is a "hunting day" and april fools is "Time for me to cause chaos"

Shard/Lucid is a big fan of Halloween and Chrismas! He tries to get a different costume each year to stay in the Halloween spirit! ...Even if after a while, Lucid will have to wear older costumes. ...Also he will be like an exited child when he sees snow-

As for Nightmare, he apreciate Thanksgiving and St. Patrick’s Day. He wont tell that he loves Easter or Halloween

And they all celebrate pride month but i think that is a given :D

Undercut are the Mirror counterpart !

MirrorComet is mostly there on Easter, she likes eating chocolate.

Tyrant apreciate St Patrick's Day the more, he won't bother much withe the others beside Thanksgiving, he despise Valentines day however-

The Doctor Somius loves halloween for the fact that since hes a fear driven Dark Matter it is not only free food but its encouraged to scare peoples. While he was not merciful in terms of scares the first few years, he had to tone it down because the Nightmare Slayer wasn't keen on causing panic. He also apreciate a lot Valentines day-

Speaking of this, Phobos used to loves New year's Eve, despite being a Dark Matter, he can't help but stare at the sky from the bottom of the Fountain. Refusing to get out due to a deep clutching fear that is still tearing him apart.