#oval coin

[tanuki-kimono]

Adorably cheeky modern obi by KyoWakka inspired by folk hero Nezumi kozô, an Edo period Robin-hood-like folk hero actually named Nakamura Jirokichi.

The nickname Nezumi kozô lit. means "rat brat", but here the thief relieving the rich of their koban (oval gold coin) is... a cat!?

I love this design sooo much: the glowing lanterns of the party searching this phantom thief + the rat-shaped shadow are super cute details!

[fayes-fics]

When The World Is Free: Chapter 14 - Un Coin Tout Bleu

MASTERPOST PREV | NEXT

Pairing: Benedict Bridgerton x fem!reader, WW2 AU.

Warnings: None really... angst, make-ups, misunderstandings, confessions and a proposal.

Word Count: 1.9k

Author’s Note: Multi-chapter fic based on a request by the lovely @amillcitygirl. Please see the masterpost for a synopsis of this story. This is the penultimate chapter, so everyone is starting to make peace. There is one more chapter that will have explicit content and an epilogue to go. Thanks as always to @colettebronte for beta reading. Enjoy!

Aubrey Hall, UK, October 1939

Instinct has you up on your feet and chasing after, rounding into each room you pass, but you cannot find either of them. Your stride is definitely no match for Benedict’s; he is likely already far away. 

When you stumble up the stairs, you collide with Violet. She is taken aback at first but then sees your apparent distress and has you in a hug before you know what is happening. 

“Whatever is it, my dear?” she soothes into your hair.

“Eloise found Benedict and I asleep in an embrace and ran away in horror,” you stutter. “And then I let slip to Benedict you think he loves me, and then he ran. Oh god!! I have messed things up so horribly,” you lament.

Her motherly concern has you clinging to her, the sting of your mother’s recent rejection still a whiplash to your heart.

“Let us find my wilful daughter; she is likely just in shock, that is all.” she counsels calmly. “And then we will deal with your errant husband.”

Looping your arm with hers, Violet leads you to a few places where she knows Elose skulks when she wants to escape the world. You both eventually find her in the attic, where stacks of books and pillows are near an oval window that suggests this is often a refuge for her.

“Eloise Bridgerton, come and make amends with your friend,” is her stern greeting.

“Why should I?” Eloise sniffs, steadfastly refusing to turn around, staring out the small window at the grounds below. “She did the one thing - the ONE THING - I told her would make me disown her….” she adds bitterly, referencing the chat you had in Paris many weeks ago before Benedict arrived. “This was a choice she made.”

“Falling in love with your brother was not a choice, Eloise; it happened quite without me meaning to,” you implore, wanting her to believe it's true.

At that, her head whips around, surprise claiming her face. “Love?” she scoffs. “Please…” Looking to her mother for support in her derision, she frowns when she seems to find none. “Are you serious?”

“Yes…” you reply softly, taking a hesitant step forward, holding your palms open at your side—a conciliatory gesture. “I married Benedict to escape, yes, but even before then, I knew I felt something for him. That connection has only grown more profound since. We have spent a lot of time together in secret. I am truly sorry I, well, we, kept it from you. I was scared you would be angry and hurt. And you are. And you have every right to be.” 

“It's true, Eloise,” Violet, standing a few paces behind you, pipes up. “I saw it the minute they arrived here. And I can tell you right now, your brother feels exactly the same.”

You want to believe Violet’s assertion about that, but you feel a tightness in your chest as she says it, worrying that it may not be accurate.

“You are my friend,” she whines almost petulantly. 

“And I will always be your friend if you allow me,” you counter delicately. “No matter what happens with Benedict, and even I do not know now, you will always be dear to me and a part of my life.”

“What did that bloody idiot do now?” she inquires, sharp as a tack.

“After you left the room, I-I mentioned your mother thinks he loves me, and well, he ran out, you admit, hanging your head.

“That idiot…” she blusters, rolling her eyes.

“I'm very sorry if you see this as a betrayal. I wanted to keep it quiet because I love you so much as a friend. I truly never want or meant to hurt you….”

Eloise sighs, and you watch her shoulders slump. “You are just lucky I know some semblance of what you speak…” she offers wistfully, a glimmer of hope that has you inhaling sharply.

You know without asking that she is referring to Phillip, and you twist to smile at Violet briefly, who suddenly looks very invested. 

“I hope you can find it within your heart to forgive me. I know it may take some time,” you allow. Hope creeps into the edges of your heart that you can reconcile with one Bridgerton, at least. 

“It is just a shock that you kept it from me,” she sighs, finally admitting what upset her the most.

“I thought us terrible actors,” you giggle lightly, hoping humour will brighten your exchange.

A soft smile teases at the corner of her lips. “Are you suggesting I am not as sharp as I could be?” she jests gently.

“Heaven forfend!” you clutch your chest, feigning shock, then morphing into a smile you hope is an olive branch. 

“I think perhaps you saw what you wanted or rather didn't want to see, daughter dearest,” Violet interjects mildly. “Because I can confirm they are both utterly terrible actors,” she chuckles.

You bite your lip and hang your head in an act of contrition that seems to amuse Eloise greatly. Her hesitant huff of humour is the best noise you could possibly hear.

“Friends?” you query tentatively, hopeful.

“Friends,” she pouts, crossing her arms. “But there is still much to make up…” she adds.

“Understood.”

With this fragile peace brokered, Violet links her arm in Eloise’s and yours, leading you both back down into the house with a declaration that tea, the ultimate British elixir, is needed.

—

Ten minutes later, you are gathered in the small glass conservatory, partaking in said refreshments. Other Bridgerton children—Colin, Francesa, and Gregory—likely drawn by the biscuit smell have also materialised. The gathering is a peaceful balm to a dramatic day. A large part of you still aches that Benedict fled, but you try to force it from your mind and concentrate on the fact that Eloise may be willing to forgive… with time.

Just as you stand to refill your teacup, however, the calm is shattered. Benedict charges into the room, flustered and breathless. He drops an envelope he is holding onto a side table and marches right up to you, stride purpose-filled, completely ignoring the rest of his family.  

“There you are! I have been looking all over for you!” Relief palpable in his tone but still agitated and animated, grabbing your forearms. “Where on earth did you go?”

You splutter indignantly. “Where did I go?! Me? I think the more pertinent question is… where did you go?! You ran out of the room so fast!”

“I asked you to wait a moment,” he frowns.

“No, you didn't!” you state forthrightly.

He seems to falter, relinquishing his grip on your arms. “I… I didn't?”

“No…”

A look of doubt, then confusion, then finally understanding ripples over his face. “Oh…So you thought I… Oh…”

“Yes,” you reply quietly so the others gathered, who seem very invested now in your exchange, cannot hear. “I thought you walked out because of what I divulged.” Not wanting to go into detail with an audience.

“No! No!” he asserts candidly. “Nothing could be further from the truth!” His eyes soften as he realises what happened, looking genuinely contrite. “I am so sorry. I must’ve forgotten to say it out loud in my excitement.”

“Excitement!?” you are baffled. “You looked terrified!”

He grabs your hands this time, holding them in his, a look of earnest sincerity claiming his handsome features. “Yes, I was nervous and shocked that my mother knew and told you,” briefly glancing towards her over your shoulder. “But it spurred me to finally be brave enough to show you something. Something very important that I need your opinion on” 

He lets go of your hands to grab the envelope from the table. With a nervous mien, he opens it and hands you a pile of photos. They are of an idyllic-looking country home surrounded by a pretty garden and countryside beyond. It looks so beautiful and instantly captures your imagination. For some strange reason, it already feels familiar to you.

“What do you think?” Benedict seems super nervous, shuffling his weight between his feet, apparently anxious for your answer. 

“It's very pretty,” you opine neutrally, primarily confused. “I'm not sure why you are showing me, though?”

“I… I wanted to know if it was somewhere you could see yourself living?” he asks enigmatically with a small smile.

“Why?” you frown, unwilling to confess the truth - that you would live there in a heartbeat. It looks like the house you dreamed you would live in one day.

He takes a deep breath, seeming to steel himself. “Because… I would like to buy it. For you. Well, for us.”

There is no other word for it - you are floored. A loud buzzing sound is behind your ears, your knees feel oddly weak, and there is a tingle in your fingertips. 

“For us?” you stutter, disbelieving.

You could hear a pin drop in the room. You can’t see them, but you know his family behind you likely have gaping mouths, especially Eloise.

“Yes, to live in. Together,” Benedict answers, that crooked smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “And if you are willing to live with me, well, then I also have another question for you…”

Your lungs feel afire, and your brain is short-circuiting—almost unable to surmount the shock. Entirely confounded as your heart pounds hard in your ribcage.

“A-A-And if I am, what is your other question?” you ask breathlessly.

You gasp as he falls to one knee before you, and you hear a collective ripple of shock behind you as he produces a little velvet box from his pocket.

“I wanted you to wait so I could also go and get this,” he explains, a slight shake in his hand as he holds it open—an engagement ring with sapphires and diamonds nestled within. 

You can feel your eyes welling with tears as you gaze down upon him.

“Realising my mother knew the truth and accepted it was a wake-up call for me. I had to finally be brave and confess to you. We are already married, so some may think this pointless, but it is nothing less than you deserve: a proper, heartfelt, honest proposal.” 

His free hand reaches and grabs yours, lacing your fingers together. It feels like the anchor you need to stay upright. 

“Given the short time, it may seem reckless to others, but I do not care what anyone thinks but you. I know what my heart tells me, indeed, has told me from the moment we met—you are my home, my refuge, my present and my future. Y/n, I love you more than I ever thought possible. I would marry you a hundred times over, in whatever way you would have me. Please, please, will you be my wife?”

A sob escapes your lungs, and you fall to your knees with him, wanting to be at eye level.

“Yes, Benedict! A hundred times - yes!!!” 

Your answer is rendered through watery tears as he breaks into a breathtaking grin and pulls you both to your feet. He gathers you into his arms and seals the pact with a lingering but chaste kiss. His eyes are misty, too, as your lips break apart and exchange smiles.

Behind you, his family erupts into whoops and applause as he pushes the ring onto your left finger, fitting snugly over your wedding band. You twist to see Eloise, a begrudging tear in her eye; a burden lightens in your heart as she nods towards you as if bestowing her tacit approval.

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[orphan-account123653]

𝕴﹕𝕾𝖎 𝖛𝖎𝖘 𝖕𝖆𝖈𝖊𝖒, 𝖕𝖆𝖗𝖆 𝖇𝖊𝖑𝖑𝖚𝖒

if you want peace, prepare for war.

cw: fem! reader, fyodor's probably ooc, reader goes to church, religious themes (it’s just Jesus tho)

word count: 2.0k

a/n: can you tell i got grammarly premium? please tell me you can tell that I got grammarly premium.

Staring into the oval mirror, you see your face streaked with dried tears. (The makeup the servants had applied hadn't done the best job of covering them) Your hair is styled into a bun, and your wedding dress is hanging on a rack in the corner of the large room. It's off the shoulder and dyed a pure white with gold and ruby accents. You stare at the dress from the corner of your eye, glaring at it contemptuously. 

You didn't want to marry him.

You didn't even know him.

You cover your face with your hands and start to sob once again, the carefully applied makeup becoming ruined further by your crying. You uncover your face but continue to hold your head in your hands. Your mind is running with so many thoughts. However, the one that weighed the most on your conscience was how you got into this mess.

The first time you saw him, you were going to buy sewing supplies from the tailor to teach your younger sister how to sew so she could fix her old teddy bear by herself. The manager had brought you the tools, and you grabbed the needed money out of your pocket. You placed the coins on the counter as the owner started to count the amount.

"Uh, miss? This amount of money isn't enough." The tailor had told you.

"Oh? I really thought it was, and that's all I have…"

You were about to take the money back and apologize when a man with black hair placed more than enough coins on the counter for you.

"I'll pay for her." The man said.

"Huh? No, there's no need to pay for me!"

You pause your sentence when you finally recognize who it is.

"Mr. Dostoyevsky?? What are you—"

"Don't mind me. I'm just here to pick up my new suit," Fyodor said, nodding to a fancy black suit in the back of the store. He turned back to the tailor. "It should be enough for my suit and this lady's items. Now go get our things, please."

The worker nodded and ran into the back of the store to grab his newly tailored suit. When he returned, he handed the respective items to both of you and accepted the money.

"Thanks for buying the sewing tools for me." You thanked Fyodor before he could walk off.

He nodded in acknowledgment of your thanks before walking away. 

The second time you saw him was Sunday, and you were walking to church alone. You weren't particularly religious, if at all. But it couldn't hurt to at least try to pray for your little sisters' health, could it? Isabella was getting increasingly sick, and neither you nor your mother knew what was wrong. You were too poor to afford a doctor, so all you could do was sit and wait. 

As you walked towards the church alone on that quiet Sunday, your footsteps echoed against the sidewalk as you noticed a figure leaning against the fence bordering the front of the church.

His silhouette cast a shadow that had seemed to sway with the soft wind. As you walked closer, you finally recognized him.

Him again? Seriously?

He looked up as you approached, his violet eyes softening ever so slightly as a faint smile tugged at the corners of his lips. The quiet moment between you was interrupted by the loud ringing of church bells, marking the start of another Sunday service. You hesitated, unsure whether to acknowledge him or walk inside the building without speaking to him.

"Hello," he said softly, his voice carrying a warmth that did nothing to ease the uncertainty in your heart.

The last time you ran into him, you had just bought three loaves of bread and were walking back home when you bumped into Fyodor again. You had tumbled to the ground along with your bread. 

It was getting quite odd at how many times you two had met, almost like it was on purpose. 

Your eyes widened as you blabbered words that sounded like they were trying to be an apology, but it wasn't working well. 

Fyodor let out a small chuckle as he bent down slightly, lending his hand toward you to help you. You froze momentarily before graciously taking his hand as he pulled you up.

"We must stop meeting like this."

"Indeed," you replied nervously, the loaves of bread scattered around you. You looked around at the mess, cheeks flushing with embarrassment.

"Would you like me to buy you some new bread? I don't think you would find eating dirty bread delightful."

"Oh– It's alright, I'm sure I'll manage." You reassured him.

"Are you sure?"

"Positive." You bent down to pick up the loaves of bread. You could just wash the dirt off, probably.

You immediately fled the scene after picking up your food. You quickly opened your house door and found your younger sister lying in bed. You genuinely wished you could get a doctor for her. But you can barely afford bread.

You bent down next to the bed, gently shaking your sister awake. After a while of shaking, her eyes finally opened.

"You're back?" She asked.

"Buying bread doesn't take much time."

"It feels like it does." She retorted, crossing her arms across her chest.

"I know," you sigh. Your little sister can be pretty impatient sometimes. "Where's mother?"

"I don't know. I was asleep when she left." 

You shrugged before returning to place the bread basket on the table.

"She'll come back soon, I know it." Your sister said.

Your conversation is interrupted by a loud knock at your door. You stand back up and head to open the door. Standing there is a mailman.

"I have a letter for [Name] [Last Name]. Is she here?"

"You're speaking to her."

"Oh, well then, here you are." The postman hands you a letter and walks off. 

You close the door and stare at the envelope. In the middle is the crest of the Dostoyevsky family.

You walk back towards your sister, who is sitting in bed. You sit at the foot of her bed.

"What does the letter say?" She asks curiously.

"I'm not sure. I haven't read it yet." You respond to her.

"Well, then read it!"

You ripped open the envelope and started to read the letter.

Dear Ms. [Last Name],

With the quill in my hand and the ink flowing from the depths of my heart, I must express how you have attracted me with your beauty despite your poverty. You have truly captivated me.

I was enchanted by the aura radiating from your soul when we met in the tailors' shop. 

Though fate has seen fit to place us on entirely separate paths—you, a child of the fields, and I, a child of noble birth—I am compelled to defy the standards society has set for us. Even though I had only met you three times before writing this letter, you are the one with whom I wish to share my life's journey.

Therefore, if you allow me, permit me to pledge myself to you in the blessed bond of marriage. Together, we shall travel the trials of life, hand in hand, as equals in love's timeless embrace.

My dear, I beg you to consider this proposal with an open heart and a willing spirit. For in your acceptance lies the promise of a future bright with the shine of my utter devotion to you.

With all the sincerity my soul can allow,

Fyodor Dostoyevsky

"Wow, a rich person wants to marry you?" Isabella clasped her hands together as she fixed her posture, becoming more interested by the second.

"This must be a joke– but if it has the official Dostoyevsky family crest, then it should be real."

"Will you accept?" Your sister asks.

"It'd be in my best interest, but I'll ask my mother and see what she thinks." You said as you stood up, "But until I can speak with her, you should go back to sleep. It's way too past your bedtime anyway." 

"Aw man, but I wanna stay up with you!" Isabella complains.

"Fine, but don't come complaining to me when you're all crabby in the morning."

"Fineee…"

"Thank you, Isabella." You thank her and sit up from her bed.

"Mhm."

After tucking Isabella into bed, you walked to the kitchen to make yourself a cup of tea. While you were making it, your mother walked into the house.

"How was your visit to uncle's?" You asked her. She was always at his house. Your uncle had always been better off than your mother. So she always hung around his home, probably because it made her feel richer.

"It was fine. Is Isabella doing any better?" She eyed the dusty bread on the table as you poured the tea.

"She's doing just as fine as yesterday."

"Ah, well, I'll be heading straight for bed. I've had a long day." Your mother yawned and stretched her arms,

"Wait! There's something I need to ask you."

"Yes?" Your mother asked, "What is it?"

"Read this letter I've received. I need your opinion."

You hand your mother the letter you have gotten. She scanned it, and when she finished, she set it down and sighed.

"You're going to marry him. It's the best choice." She said bluntly.

"But– I don't love him. I've only met him three times?"

"I doubt he cares much if you love him. Besides, think about Isabella. You can get her a proper doctor if you marry him. The Dostoyevsky family has lots of money, you know." Your mother explained.

“Yeah… I know…”

"So you'll marry him?" She asked.

"Yes, mother." You looked at the ground solemnly as you confirmed her question

"That's good. I'll get you paper and a quill. I want your response by tomorrow morning."

"Alright."

You're brought back to the present when one of the servants knocks on your door. "Ms. [Last Name], are you ready for the wedding?"

Oh shit, while you were busy having flashbacks and a mini-mental breakdown, you had completely forgotten about the thing that had caused you such stress!

"Uhm– I'll be out in a minute!"

You hurriedly put on the dress and fixed your makeup to the best of your (limited) ability. Then you opened the door and stepped out.

"You look beautiful. Are you ready?"

"I guess…"

You put on the heels and walk out of the room. You try to distract yourself by looking at the glass windows as you walk down the long hall toward what you consider to be an execution. The stained glass depicts different imagery on each piece.

Jesus, with his lamb,

Jesus, with his sacred heart, 

Jesus, on the cross,

Yeah, there's definitely a pattern.

You open the wooden doors at the end of the hall and walk towards the carriage outside. Once inside, the carriage begins its way to the church.

Your mother is waiting in front of the doors leading into the venue. She's holding your veil and a little piece of paper containing the vows you wrote down at the last minute.

"Remember to smile and be polite," your mother says as she fits the veil onto your head.

"I will."

In the grand venue of the church, the air was thick with anticipation as guests dressed in their finest clothing gathered to watch firsthand the marriage between two mismatched souls. Fyodor Dostoyevsky, the eldest son of the respected Dostoyevsky family, stands at the altar, waiting for you to come down the aisle.  

The grand piano filled the luxurious room as the ceremony started, drowning out the guests' gossip. The marriage between you and Fyodor was initially unknown; most guests only knew you were getting married once the invite was sent to them. Everyone knew how proud Fyodor was of his heritage, so why would he marry someone lower class? 

As the vows were exchanged by the two of you, the weight of your future settled upon you like a suffocating cloud. Fyodor could feel your hands trembling as he slid the ring onto your finger. 

His voice was barely above a whisper as he pledged his forever undying loyalty to you. 

However, for you, this marriage was only an opportunity to secure a place amongst the elite despite your origins.

[syndrossi]

resonant ch30 dvd commentary

Favorite line(s):

A walk through the yard proved fruitless. The hatchlings abandoned him briefly to greet Caraxes, and Daemon trotted away in the moment of their distraction, unheeding of the strange looks it garnered, to duck back into the holdfast. But they hunted him down within a minute, gleeful in their success, as though it had been a delightful game instead. “I hope Jon and Rhaegar are enjoying themselves as much as you,” Daemon said, unable to maintain his sour mood.

A few people mentioned this part in the chapter comments, which is my own personal favorite, though pretty much all of Daemon's attempts to dodge the hatchlings made me crack up writing them.

The runner-up is some tonal whiplash after the hatchling cuteness:

My sons should not be without their dragons. The dread that had lodged in his stomach surged, fear gripping his heart at the thought. They must not be without their dragons.

Look, my favorite thing to write other than hatchlings apparently is Daemon being repeatedly haunted by the candle and its visions, sucker punch after sucker punch, without even the awareness to curl into the blow.

Favorite detail(s):

Lys coinage! GRRM has described the currencies of all (I think?) of the Free Cities, but only a few of them are actually named. Ironically, the coinage of Braavos, aka the home of the Iron Bank itself, hasn't had its currency named by GRRM yet!

Lys coinage is depicted as a naked woman in an oval coin, believed to be the goddess of love. Given its famed pleasure houses and the woman on the coin, I decided to call the Lys currency "favors." It felt like it matched well with Volantis's honors, while having a uniquely Lysene flair. What do you ask of a woman or the goddess of love? Her favor. (Or wink wink favors, perhaps.)

The other one is the name of Mysaria's establishment, the Ebon Plume. Who has been rising to power in Lys? None other than the Black Swan. You can take Mysaria naming her place the Ebon Plume as some sort of reference to the Black Swan; whether that's because she admires a woman who can rise from being taken as a pleasure slave to practically ruling all of Lys, or because she owes some allegiance still to her home, who can say?

Favorite dynamic:

Oof, having to choose is hard here, because there are some fun ones! Hatchlings vs Mysaria and hatchlings + Daemon are near and dear to my heart, but Mysaria and Daemon are the ones with the history and conversation, so we'll go with them.

As with Rhaenys, I enjoyed getting into Mysaria's head to figure out what makes her tick. My Mysaria is much more heavily show-inspired than a lot of the Resonant characters, in part because F&B is quite sparse on the details for her. And the thing that is so striking about show!Mysaria is how much of an opportunist she is, and how skilled she is at manipulating people. She's very good at listening, and being comforting (she does this a lot with both Daemon in S1 and Rhaenyra in S2), and becoming what someone needs her to be.

Daemon can be charming, and he's certainly very useful, so it's in Mysaria's interests to re-establish some kind of relationship with him if she can, even in a more business-like context, ideally with a level of trust. He's even more of a rising power these days, which does make her deal with Otto a tiny bit awkward unless she's careful about playing both sides. Daemon's importance is in his relevance to the most powerful men of the realm: Viserys and Otto.

I also interpret her as having a prideful streak of her own, not unlike Daemon's, though she's better at hiding it. I didn't call it out as one of my favorite lines, but her defiant "I raised my own head high" was a moment that resonated when I wrote it.

She's an ambitious woman, and she holds a lot of power right now because Daemon needs her, with Reyne being useless and Daemon in desperate need of answers.

(How will Viserys feel about this development? Uh...stay tuned.)

Quick hitters:

The original chapter title was going to be "Dangerous Paths" but then I realized I have a chapter called "Dangerous Games" and I didn't want the repetition. So "Spiderweb" it was, for the many ways it can be applied to the chapter.

Ser Steffon was also the Kingsguard who was accompanying Rhaegar back in chapter 21, when he went into Rhaella's old/future room to sob on her bed. So he definitely has a history of being hands-off with children in his care.

The Forked Spears stuff continues to be incredibly frustrating to work in without leaning too far into a more modern detective novel vibe. It's probably the stuff I rewrite/edit the most.

Originally, I had considered a more action-oriented plot for Daemon's first meeting, with either an attack that causes Caraxes to dramatically fly to his aid. (Also exposing to Viserys that he was most definitely in Flea Bottom.) Or one that required him to slip out through a secret stairway when the Forked Spears came calling on Mysaria. But it didn't feel like the right time for it, especially so recently after the candle business.

Alas, Daemon's first non-platonic kiss goes to Mysaria. She was angling for more, to re-establish their relationship in hopes of better access.

I've complained about it before, but establishing currency values for things like ransoms/rewards is such a pain, even before exchange rates between different nations' currencies (honors vs dragons vs favors) comes into play...

Ask me sometime about my own spider trauma. (Tbh, I am both Rhaegar and Jon. Spider in my hair = a thousand nos, but I'll try to peacefully relocate spiders outside unless it's a black widow.)

Aegon and Aemond successfully negotiate some Daemon time! It goes without saying that if Viserys catches wind of the supper arrangement, he will almost certainly want to crash it.

[paradox-valleyy]

Lost and Found

Pre-Canon rdr 2 x Teen!fem!oc

Chapter 2 | Chapter 3

Taglist: @photo1030

Word count: 3,8k

Notes: “It’s scary trusting people”

A week had slipped by since Jolene walked out to the ranch with Sister Amelia. The Sister’s words had drifted in and out of her mind, but Jolene didn’t think much of them—this wasn’t her first visit to the church, after all. Reverend Thomas was a kind man, if a little odd in her eyes. He was generous to a fault, which she supposed was expected of a pastor, but there was something about him she couldn’t quite place. It left her uncertain, like the man didn’t fit neatly into her idea of people.

Jolene had been in this town for about seven months now, ever since she left her old town and a friendly couple had offered her a ride. She’d traveled with them for a few days, but when the outlines of a new town appeared on the horizon, she’d thanked them, jumped down, and set off alone. This town had a quiet charm—some people were pleasant enough, and most didn’t pay her any mind. But not everyone was easy to overlook. The Sheriff, for one, was a thorn in her side, always patrolling with a watchful eye that made Jolene feel like she stood out more than she wanted to. And then there was Mr. Finch, a man whose mere presence could steal the warmth from the sun. She’d only seen him up close twice: once with his wife, heavily pregnant as they entered the doctor’s office half a year back, and another time leaving the church just a few weeks ago. Jolene wouldn’t dream of lifting anything off a man like that; the consequences alone were enough to keep her at bay.

Now she sat in the cool shade of a narrow alley, nestled between Johnson’s shop and the saloon, working on her latest attempt at whittling. She’d borrowed a small knife and was trying to carve a wooden bear, though it looked more like a lumpy oval topped with a circle than anything resembling an animal. Still, she was focused, letting the shadowed alley shield her from the blistering Western sun as she chipped away, one small flake of wood at a time.

Jolene had worked at her little wooden bear for a while but eventually grew bored. After two hours, it looked a bit more bear-like, though hardly a masterpiece. Still, she nodded at her rough carving, then winced as she stood, her backside sore from sitting on the hard ground for so long. As she stepped out of the alley, she wandered up the porch of Johnson’s shop, leaving the wooden bear and the borrowed knife on the outer windowsill with a faint hint of satisfaction.

With the afternoon stretching lazily before her, Jolene headed toward the town’s outskirts, wondering how best to spend the hours until sunset, when she’d go to the saloon to gather her coins. It wasn’t much, but she’d learned how to sneak a few from the pockets of the saloon girls and sometimes had enough for a warm meal from the bar. Her stomach growled as she thought about it. Pickings had been slim lately—people had gotten to know her, and now, at the sight of her, their hands instinctively guarded their pockets.

Leaving the dusty roads behind, she followed the familiar path that led out of town, weaving along the riverbank and into the cool shelter of the woods. She considered visiting the ranch but knew it was too far to make it there and back in time to reach the saloon before dark. So instead, she trotted along the pathway , grateful for the damp, shaded air as it warded off the day’s relentless heat. Her mind wandered as she walked, lost in idle thoughts. Her hair had grown long enough to curl at the nape of her neck, and she’d grown a bit taller, though she still hadn’t filled out much. For now, her slim build kept her boyish-looking, but she knew that wouldn’t last forever.

Wandering off the trail, she spotted a large fallen tree. The trunk was thick, almost chest-high, and curiosity got the better of her. She scrambled up, struggling for a moment but managing to hoist herself on top. She tried to sit astride it as if riding a horse, but the trunk was too wide, so she simply stood, looking around with a newfound sense of height.

That’s when she noticed smoke rising in the distance. Jolene’s curiosity sparked to life, and she jumped down, moving toward the source of the fire with caution. As she drew closer, she slowed, pressing herself against a tree, listening intently. Voices drifted faintly from between the trees—several people by the sound of it. Her heartbeat quickened as she hesitated, wondering if she should risk it. A gathering like this could mean trouble, and she didn’t fancy getting caught up in it. After a few tense moments, she decided it was best to turn back. Life had finally settled into some kind of balance, and she didn’t want to tempt fate now.

By the time Jolene reached town, the sky had deepened into shades of light purple and orange, casting long shadows across the dusty streets. She strolled into the saloon, which was still quiet in the early evening, only a few regulars and a couple of travelers scattered across the tables. Jolene made her way toward a group of saloon girls lounging near the back, exchanging glances and laughter as they prepared for a long night ahead.

One of the women spotted her immediately. “Hey, Joel,” she called out, her voice smooth and teasing. “What brings you in here so early?”

Jolene grinned, letting a hint of her boyish charm play across her face. “Aw, nothin’ much,” she drawled, with a slight shrug. “Starvin’ out there on the streets, y’know how it is. But one look at you fine ladies, and I reckon I’m better fed than if I had a whole bowl of stew.” She winked, earning herself a few chuckles from the women. She’d picked up the knack for charm, a little trick she’d learned to keep folks from looking too close.

One of them sighed with a smile, reaching into her pocket. “You’re a good kid, Joel. Here, don’t go hungry,” she said, pressing a few coins into her hand. Another one tossed in a couple more, shaking her head in amusement.

“Well, ain’t you all too kind?” Jolene replied, her grin widening. “Much obliged, and good luck tonight, ladies.”

She sauntered over to the bar, where the barkeep was watching her with a smirk, having overheard the exchange. “You sure got a way with those ladies, Joel,” he joked, wiping down a glass.

Jolene shrugged, feigning confidence. “Only natural,” she said, tipping her nonexistent hat in mock swagger. “I’ll grow up a real lady’s man, mark my words.”

The barkeep chuckled, shaking his head. “Well, the stew ain’t quite ready yet,” he said. “If you’re lookin’ for somethin’ hot, you’ll have to sit tight for a spell.”

Jolene sighed, glancing around the room. “Fine, I’ll come by later” she muttered, preparing to wander back toward the door.

But as she turned, the barkeep called out to her, his voice shifting from friendly to firm. “And, Joel—listen here. I don’t want no more of your funny business in my saloon. You’re scarin’ off good customers with all that foolin’ around.”

Jolene rolled her eyes, then turned to face him with a half-smile, raising her hand in a playful salute. “Got it, sir. No trouble from me,” she replied, starting to back away.

Just as she turned toward the exit, she collided with something solid—a wall of muscle, by the feel of it. She stumbled back, glancing up at the man she’d just bumped into. He was tall, with light brown hair and a rough stubble lining his jaw, and the faintest scowl etched on his face. She recognized him instantly—the same man she’d seen with his buddy at Johnson’s shop last week.

“Sorry, mister,” she said quickly, forcing a respectful tone.

The man gave her a once-over, then tipped his hat just slightly, though his gaze was sharp. “Just watch where you’re goin’, kid,” he said, his voice a low rumble, before stepping past her toward the bar.

Jolene nodded, letting him move on before she quietly slipped out the saloon door, a bit relieved to be in the evening air again. She made a mental note to keep her head low around him from now on—she’d seen that look in a man’s eyes before, and it didn’t belong to the friendly type.

Jolene was on her way to Johnson’s, half-hoping he might be in one of his rare generous moods and toss her a peppermint or a caramel. She knew it was unlikely, but she’d grown used to small hopes, and Johnson’s treats had a way of making the day feel a bit sweeter, however briefly.

But her thoughts were broken by a scream that sliced through the air. She jerked her head toward the doctor’s office just in time to see Dr. Abery stumbling out, his face ashen, his eyes wild.

“A damn shame!” he cried, voice nearly cracking. “Who in their right mind’d do such a thing?”

Jolene frowned, her mind already turning. What in the hell…?

A crowd began to gather, drawn by the doctor’s outburst. The Sheriff appeared, storming down the street with a dark look, his boots pounding out a fierce rhythm as he pushed folks aside, his eyes set dead ahead on the doctor’s office. He brushed right past Jolene without a second glance, leaving her more intrigued. She noticed Johnson step out of his shop, narrowing his eyes toward the commotion.

“Somethin’ happen?” Johnson asked, glancing at her.

Jolene shrugged, playing it cool. “No idea,” she replied, though she felt a pull of curiosity tightening inside her as she joined Johnson on the porch, both of them straining to catch bits of the murmured conversation around them.

And then came a voice that made her heart skip a beat. The Sheriff’s voice, loud and angry, calling her alias: “JOEL!”

She froze. Shit. Her pulse quickened as she tried to keep her expression calm, though her mind raced.

Johnson glanced sideways at her, his brow lifted. “What’s this all about? You up to somethin’?”

Jolene forced a laugh, shaking her head. “Ain’t got a clue, Mr. Johnson.”

She was still trying to act nonchalant when she heard the Sheriff’s boots pounding toward her. She debated running, just tearing down the street and out of there—but that’d only make her look worse. Better to stay, look innocent.

She stepped down from the porch, trying to keep her shoulders loose. But before she could say a word, the Sheriff was on her, his palm coming down in a sharp, stinging slap that knocked her off balance. Before she could even react, his hand was at her collar, jerking her forward as his voice dripped with anger.

“Where is it, you little thief?” he snarled, his voice thick with accusation.

“Where’s what?” she managed, choking on her surprise, one hand grabbing at his wrist as he held her close enough that she could see the fury burning in his eyes.

“Don’t play games, Joel!” he spat, giving her another rough shake. “The nerve of you, takin’ what ain’t yours!”

She felt her pulse hammering in her ears, the humiliation sinking in as she realized everyone was watching. “I didn’t take nothin’! Wasn’t even in town till just now!” she protested, her voice hoarse, desperation slipping into her tone.

“Oh yeah?” he sneered, his grip tightening painfully. “And who’s gonna vouch for you, huh?”

She clamped her mouth shut, realizing she had no alibi. No one would be able to confirm where she’d been. The Sheriff’s eyes gleamed with grim satisfaction at her silence, and he slapped her again, this time hard enough that her cheek flared with pain.

“Now,” he said, his voice a low, menacing growl, “hand it over. Everything ya took.”

The crowd watched, their faces hard and judgmental, their stares boring into her. She’d felt like an outsider in this town before, but now their silent verdict left her feeling exposed, small, and utterly alone. She swallowed hard, forcing herself to keep her head up even as her heart twisted with a mix of shame and frustration. Nobody believed her—hell, nobody even questioned if she might be innocent.

The Sheriff tightened his grip on her arm, and his rough hands started patting her down. He found the few coins she’d managed to collect earlier and tossed them to the dirt, sneering.

“That all you got, boy?” he mocked, giving her a dark look as he continued his search, hands roaming her pockets and every corner of her clothes.

Then his fingers brushed against the chain around her neck. Her heart seized.

No, please no. But he’d already noticed, his face twisting with a smug sort of triumph as he reached into her shirt collar, his hand finding the small necklace and yanking it free, the chain digging painfully into the back of her neck before snapping.

“No!” she gasped, her voice breaking, her hands reaching instinctively to try to grab it back.

He held it up, dangling the necklace in front of her face. “Oh, ‘no,’ is it? Figured you stole this too, didn’t ya?”

Her breath hitched, panic flaring up as she saw the small ring hanging from the broken chain. She watched helplessly as he tossed it to the side, the ring slipping free and falling to the dirt at her feet. It was her last bit of comfort, a scrap of memory, something she hadn’t let go of since she’d started wandering these dusty trails. She lunged downward, desperate to snatch it up, but the Sheriff shoved her back, hard, sending her sprawling to the ground.

He glared down at her, his face twisted in disgust. “Where’s the rest of it, huh?” he demanded, voice harsh.

“I didn’t take nothin’,” she murmured, her voice hoarse, trembling with the weight of the tears threatening to fall. She felt hollow, worn out by the humiliation.

The Sheriff scoffed, clearly unimpressed, and gave her one last contemptuous look. “We’ll see about that,” he muttered before turning on his heel and heading back toward the doctor’s office.

Jolene sat there in the dirt, her cheek stinging from the slaps, the ache in her heart cutting deeper than any of the bruises. All around, people were watching, their faces twisted with judgment and disappointment. Not one of them spoke up in her defense. Not one of them had a shred of faith in her.

She swallowed hard, her throat tight, her heart feeling heavier than ever. Even Dr. Abery, whose eyes held a faint sadness, had looked away with disappointment.

They all think I’m the thief, she realized, a bitter ache sinking into her bones.

Slowly, she scrambled to her knees, her hands trembling as she reached for the broken necklace and the ring lying in the dirt. She held them close, clutching the torn pieces to her chest, something inside her breaking with each tear that slipped down her cheeks. She finally rose, glancing back one last time to see Johnson shaking his head, his lips pressed tight.

Unable to bear it any longer, she turned and ran, her legs carrying her out of town and away from their accusing stares. She didn’t stop, her heart pounding as she ran past the last buildings, her breathing ragged and shallow, her thoughts churning in a blur of anger, hurt, and betrayal.

By the time she reached a large rock by the path, she couldn’t run any further. She collapsed against it, sliding down until she was sitting with her back pressed against the cool stone. She stared down at the torn necklace in her hands, her breath hitching as the storm of emotions finally overtook her.

And then the tears really came, fierce and unrelenting, pouring down her cheeks as she sobbed, the anguish spilling out in waves. Her cheek throbbed, her hands were scraped from the fall, but none of it mattered next to the hollow ache gnawing at her heart.

She curled her fingers tightly around the broken chain, her chest heaving with grief and frustration. She hadn’t thought it would hurt this bad, hadn’t thought that one slap, one broken chain, could make her feel so utterly defeated. But as she sat there, clutching the last piece of her past, she realized the weight of her loneliness—the kind that no clever disguise, no snappy comeback, could ever hide.

Back in town, as the crowd thinned and the gossiping settled, people still shot glances toward Dr. Abery’s office, where the Sheriff’s raised voice could be faintly heard. Standing alone on the saloon porch, a tall cowboy with dust-streaked boots and a gunbelt slung low across his hips took it all in, a deep frown creasing his brow. With a muttered, “Well… hell,” he felt the weight of Dr. Abery’s money hanging heavy in his satchel. He let out a slow sigh, rubbing the back of his neck before heading toward his horse, already feeling the sting of regret settling like a bad taste in his mouth.

He mounted, urging his horse into an easy gait down the dirt road leading out of town, his sharp eyes scanning the landscape for any sign of the kid. Not far out, he finally spotted a slumped figure beside a big rock near the edge of the path. Another sigh escaped him as he pulled the horse to a stop, letting her trot onto the grass. He reached into his saddlebag, pulling out a peppermint stick before heading over slowly.

The kid, hearing his boots on the ground, looked up, his tear-streaked face quickly buried against his sleeve, wiping his cheeks. Seeing the cowboy, he put on a tough front, his eyes narrowing in suspicion.

“Don’t be cryin’ none, boy,” the cowboy said, his voice low as he leaned against the big stone. “Folks like them back there… they ain’t worth it.”

Jolene pushed herself to her feet, eyeing him with a mix of curiosity and caution. “You’re the man from the saloon,” she said, sizing him up.

He gave her a nod, then held out the peppermint stick. “Here,” he said, offering it like a peace offering, his mouth twitching with a faint smile.

She took it hesitantly but didn’t unwrap it just yet, her gaze still wary as she studied him. “Why’d you come after me?” she asked, suspicion flickering in her voice.

The cowboy scratched at his beard, glancing out toward the open plains before answering. “What the Sheriff did… didn’t sit right with me.” His tone was calm but firm, like he’d come to a decision about her that he couldn’t quite explain.

She gave him a long, searching look before leaning back against the rock, finally unwrapping the peppermint stick and sticking it in her mouth. Her other hand still clutched the broken chain and ring, and she looked down at them, the sadness in her eyes clear.

“You live back in that town?” he asked after a long, uncomfortable silence.

“No. Not anymore. Not like I ever really did,” she muttered, the words coming out quieter than she meant.

The cowboy nodded, his eyes softening a bit, and for a moment, they both stood in silence, just watching the sky darken a shade as the sun slipped lower.

After a beat, she broke the quiet, her voice small and cautious. “You don’t think I took it, do you?” Her eyes flicked up to meet his, a spark of vulnerability there.

He scratched his beard again, considering his words before he shrugged. “Didn’t seem like it to me.”

She nodded, relief visible in her small smile. “I didn’t take it. Dr. Avery… well, he’s been real deep in debt, I heard. His wife was real sick before she died, and he paid a fortune for her medicine. Spent everythin’ he had.” She didn’t notice the way her words deepened the guilt in his expression. He’d thought the doctor was doing well enough, seeing the fine trimmings in his home when he’d snuck in through the back.

He sighed. “Arthur Morgan,” he introduced himself, a touch of his former confidence creeping back.

“Joel,” Jolene mumbled, and she unclutched the broken chain, looking down at it with sorrow. Arthur glanced at the ring in her hand and gave a slight nod.

“That there can be fixed,” he said without thinking.

Her face lit up, hope flickering in her eyes. “Really?”

Arthur nodded. “Maybe someone back at camp’s handy enough to do it. And if not, I’ll pay to have it done proper.”

She looked at him, suspicion creeping back in. “Why would you do that? You don’t even know me.”

He shrugged, searching for the words. “Just feel bad for ya, son,” he replied, his voice gruff. Jolene looked at him, considering, then nodded, maybe starting to believe this cowboy was more generous than he seemed.

“I was thinkin’ of leavin’ this place anyway,” she said softly. “After today… they’ll treat me like shit.”

Arthur gave her a slow nod of understanding. “Well, come on back to camp with me first. We’ll see if anyone can fix that chain.”

He whistled sharply, and his horse trotted up to them, her coat shining in the late sunlight. “This here’s Boadicea,” he said, patting the horse’s neck fondly. Jolene’s eyes widened, a spark of fascination flickering across her face.

She approached carefully, letting the horse sniff her hand before giving her a gentle pat. Arthur reached out his hand. “Gimme the chain for now. I’ll keep it safe.”

After a beat of hesitation, she handed it over, watching as he carefully pocketed it. Arthur swung himself onto Boadicea’s back, then looked down at her expectantly.

“Go on, get up behind me,” he said.

She tossed the remains of her peppermint stick aside and tried clambering up but managed only to kick dust. Arthur sighed, sliding back in the saddle a little. “You ever ridden before, boy?”

Jolene shook her head, cheeks flushing.

“All right, c’mere,” he muttered, reaching down to grab her under the arms. In one smooth motion, he hoisted her up onto the saddle in front of him. She swung her leg over carefully, making sure not to kick Boadicea’s neck. Arthur nodded approvingly, his arms settling on either side of her as he took hold of the reins.

With a soft nudge, he spurred Boadicea into an easy, steady gallop. The world stretched out before them, open and wild, as the last light of day slipped away behind them. And for the first time in a long time, Jolene felt a sliver of hope glimmering, steady as the warmth of the cowboy’s arms guiding her forward.

[mantra-repeated]

Loverboy lexiden & lexibic

Pt: Loverboy lexiden & lexibic :End Pt

Lexiden | Lexibic

Loverboy Lexiden: A term where the word loverboy is deeply integral or important to ones identity.

Loverboy lexibic: A term where the word Loverboy is important to how one describes or views oneself.

Mentions / Tags: @radiomogai, @blood-moon-night-coining

Banner transcript: This term was made by an Endogenic. Anyone can use it however (So don't repost or recoin) :End Transcript

Loverboy lexiden flag id: a rectangular flag with seven equally-sized horizontal stripes. the stripes bulge out in an oval shape in the middle. the colors, which are horizontally symmetrical, from the center out, are light pink, dark pink, magenta, and dark magenta. in the center of the flag is a dark purple asterisk symbol. :End Id

Loverboy lexibic flag id: a rectangular flag with seven equally-sized horizontal stripes. the middle stripe is straight while the rest are wavy. the colors, which are horizontally symmetrical, from the center out, are light pink, dark pink, magenta, and dark magenta. in the center of the flag is a dark purple half-star outlined and filled with light purple pink. :End Id

[sparklermun]

Hello there everyone, and welcome to night seventeen of the tenth annual Wreck-it Ralph Pin Post Month!

Tonight we're revisiting the WDI, Pressed Pennies, King Candy, Wreck-it Ralph pin. LE 250.

This pin was released in August of 2013 as a part of a large collection of pins known as the Pressed Pennies Series. A collection of pins made to reflect the design of their pressed coin counterpart, in honor of one of Disney's oldest forms of Disney park collectables. This particular pin was made in the image of the King Candy pressed penny once found in Disneyland and Walt Disney World. The pin itself is shaped like an oval, with the raised molded figure of King Candy in his classic pose. Leaning on his cane was smiling cleverly, all the while his name sits in bold beneath his feet while the movie logo resides under that.

The Pressed Pennies pin series comes with a bit of Disney history, as each pin in this collection was modeled after an actual pressed coin found in Disney parks. Amounting to sixty pins total, plus an additional three released in Disney Hong Kong. This includes coins from holidays, special events, as well as those that were only available for a limited time in parks. Immortalized in pin form so the memory of discontinued coins lives on. I have a particular fondness for this collection as I once walked around Disneyland as a child with my little book of pressed pennies. Excited to add another to my collection, after begging my parents for a penny of course. It was these coins that lead to my collecting of pins later on, so having a pin that brings together the past and present is quite a special thing.

[boltgsr]

when you're a human who wound up working as a cleaning guy for an anthro dragon but have to stay disguised by taking anthro dragon tf potion

The days turned to weeks, the weeks to months. Bit by bit the hoard shrank away. I was becoming a familiar face at junk dealers down in the undercity. Some of the stuff your grandfather had taken over the years had real value: faded jewelry that just needed a polish, heirloom clocks that would tick like new once they’d been through a tune. Clothes fared less well. Everyone still living here could make use of good clothes, but even the poorest among us has no use for shirts that have rotted away to almost nothing. Sometimes I had to slide a few coins over to get a dealer to take the worst of what you had. It was either that or dump it in the river and let it be swept away, and my bleeding heart couldn’t quite stomach dumping what was left of some granny’s wedding dress into the muck. This way at least maybe someday her grandkid would walk in and recognize it - or maybe it wound up in the river anyway. I didn’t ask. What fascinated me most about the work were the bits and pieces from non-humans. Your grandfather had been an equal-opportunity loan shark, if nothing else: pouring through the piles I found fine silk tassels designed to be tied across tails, bejeweled combs bigger than my hand for tending to lycan fur. In one corner I found a thin wooden tube with belts nailed up and down it, with odd branches spinning off covered countless oval-shaped metallic leaves. I hadn’t the faintest idea what it was until I tried to hawk it to a very human trader down near the river. What, he asked, did I think he was going to do with a prosthetic avian wing? I didn’t have an answer. And when it came to draconic furniture and accessories, well, those were the nights I had to watch my step. More than once you caught me about to haul away some piece of furniture I couldn’t make hide nor hair of and stopped me before I could get outside, insisting you could find a place for it here. There was that pair of wooden, circular tables, with faded, thin pillows atop them that we hauled up to one of the balconies, afraid to ask what was going on, until on the way out I looked up and saw you curled up on one, looking as pleased as a peach. Basking circles, I later learned they were called. Another night, while you were deep in some tome, I snuck out and hesitantly climbed up on one, letting my still-strange spine curl in a way that felt natural and settling down on all four paws. It was a warm night, and as I wrapped my tail around me I felt a hesitant purr bubble up in my throat. Embarrassed, I clambered off and got back to work.

still plugging away at this story, but i wanted to do the writing equivalent of sharing a wip sketch and post a few paragraphs. it's about 31000 words at the moment, still got a few more scenes to write. then the editing starts. yes the dragons are gay in it

[dreamtigress]

Komedie Brute

Do you ever wish there were MORE Komedie Brute characters? I mean, Commedia Dell'Arte has an entire cast of characters. Welp, I've got you covered. Since I'm writing a Masquerade themed opening gala in a story, I sat down and invented more Komedie Brute characters. Here ya go. Feel free to steal for your stories as desired.

Canon Komedie Brute Characters:

Mister Crimson is a character dressed in red and black, with a mask. When he appears on the stage, the audience calls out, "Mother, Father, pay the rent!" To which he responds, "I can't, my dear, the money's spent!" and throws out coins into the audience. These coins are usually fake, but occasionally genuine money.

The Scarab Queen is a character dressed in black and shimmering green, similar to the carapace of a beetle. She covers her face with a gilded crown-like mask. The audience throws flowers at the Scarab Queen.

The Madman is a character dressed in a grotesque orange costume, and a goggle-eyed mask with a hooked beak. The audience hisses at the Madman when he appears on stage.

The Lost Bride is a character dressed in blue with a silk cape. She covers her face with a matching veil and wears a crown of flowers.

The Imp is a character dressed in a high-necked gray tunic, and a horned mask with bulbous staring eyes.

My additions:

The Pigeon is a hapless fool, meant to be the butt of jokes, easily taken advantage of. Wears a mask with a short bird beak, usually in gray, green and purple, and plain clothes. The Pigeon is often seen begging for Mister Crimson to be kind, or to let him out of a debt. It is unknown, and eternally debated, if the term for the gamblers in the Barrel as ‘pigeons’ came before or after the Komedie Brute character.

The Tart is meant to mimic the brothel workers. Usually depicted as female, scantily clad in faux silks, with an oval full face mask painted with exaggerated makeup. Rich merchers wives will play at being The Tart in the Barrel for a thrill, doing things they can’t in the Geldstraat.

The Captain is a caricature of the Stadwatch. The mask is usually a mustached older man, with a dark purple cape or suit adorned in gold trim. The character usually carries a baton, and is often seen chasing other characters and beating upon them with the baton.

The Young Lovers are a pair of characters. The masks are full oval faces, done up to look young, with heart shaped pink blush marks on the cheeks. They’re often jeweled with paste gems. Couples will rent The Young Lovers masks to go about the Barrel. On Sankt Emerens feast day, single people will wear The Young Lovers masks in order to seek out a partner to have a tryst with. Some say The Lost Bride is the older version of the female Young Lover, once her partner has died or disappeared.

[christopher067]

CALLIOPE / NECKLACE + EARRINGS

hellooo :) Today I have for you a fun set of coin jewelry! This is a fierce pair of oval hoop earrings with a coin pendant + a long satellite chain coin pendant necklace and a short paperclip chain. I have had this necklace on my wip list since last year and just now finished it lol.. I really don’t know what took me so long buuut I am super happy with the result! Maybe I need to make more coin necklaces again.. hmm.. I hope you love it!! ✩

Necklace

21 Metal Tones

New Mesh by Me

Custom Thumbnail

HQ Mod Compatible

Does NOT have morphs

Earrings

8 Metal Tones

New Mesh by Me

Custom Thumbnail

HQ Mod Compatible

DOWNLOAD NECKLACE

DOWNLOAD EARRINGS

♡

If you use my content be sure to tag me, #christopher067 or @christopher067

If you want to edit my creations check my T.O.U. ♡

[coimbrabertone]

Le Mans vs. Daytona, Two Sides of the Endurance Racing Coin.

A bit of a belated blog on the 2024 24 Hours of Le Mans, how it compares to the other major 24-hour race - the Rolex 24 at Daytona - and how IMSA and WEC differ.

First things first, sports car racing in general is at a peak right now.

The largest prototype fields in decades, interclass competition of sorts with LMDh/GTP cars on one end and Hypercars on the other, and equally diverse GT3 fields to go with it. It's not a competition between IMSA and WEC as far as I'm concerned, both series collaborated on these regulations and that has benefitted endurance racing as a whole.

That being said, I've noticed some differences between the two, and I've had some discussions with friends about it lately.

The crux is this: the Rolex 24 at Daytona is the curtain raiser for the racing season, where drivers from every discipline from Formula One to NASCAR to half the Indycar field, plus all the regular cast of characters from endurance racing come to play. It's all within the confines of a 2.5-mile oval with big grandstands and clear sightlines, and the lights are all over the track, meaning you can see all the action pretty well. It's also in Daytona Beach a few weeks ahead of the Daytona 500.

Daytona is a party, a celebration of motorsport to kick off the next season of racing.

Le Mans, meanwhile, is a beacon of history. The start-finish line is where it has always been, the Dunlop Bridge has outlasted Dunlop itself making racing tyres, and it's an old school reminder to when those types of circular bridges were all over racing. Then onto the Mulsanne, the long, dark highway, with bits of civilization interspersed with woods, a theme with continues in the back half of the track. Some corners are named after historic tracks, like Indianapolis, others are named after the marques which defined era of Le Mans history - Corvette, Porsche, and Ford in particular.

Corvette, which has dominated GT racing at Le Mans for decades now.

Porsche, which is the most successful brand at Le Mans, and

Ford, who went back-to-back-to-back-to-back in the late 60s with the GT40, and then returned with the GT1 and GTE models in more recent decades.

That dedication to history shows in the broadcast too, with the broadcast often cutting to Tom Kristensen for interviews or by harkening back to similar events in Le Mans' past. Obviously, that's something that comes up in all racing broadcasts, but it was very apparent at Le Mans this year.

For the record, I'm not saying that's bad, this blog is proof that I'm a massive nerd when it comes to racing history, and I love that, I'm just noting it's a difference.

The crowd burning a couch in celebration after the 12 Hours of Sebring? Fans celebrating the misadventures of the Sean Creech Motorsports American flag Ligier LMP2 with its many cautions at Daytona and now Watkins Glen? You don't really see that at Le Mans.

In fact, there was one very fun thing from the 2023 Le Mans that was missing this year: the Garage 56 NASCAR. Now, i understand that was a one-off thing, and I do get the impression that the hydrogen car they showed off before the race - which was numbered #24, just like the NASCAR had been - was supposed to be a G56 entry for this year but they couldn't quite get it working yet, so I know that it's a bit of an unfair criticism to levy against Le Mans.

Still, 2023 had the big Camaro memes, the V8 sound, all those Freebird on the Mulsanne edits, it made Le Mans more fun.

And of course, Le Mans is fun even without those things - ferris wheels, fireworks, and, you know, the whole twenty-four hours of motor racing thing - all make for appointment television for racing nerds like me, but it is something I've noticed coming out of the 2024 race.

So does Le Mans need to change? No, i don't think so.

I like seeing cars coming down the Mulsanne, I like seeing the Ferrari hypercar racing against Toyota in addition to all the cars that do both IMSA and WEC, I like the announcers getting increasingly delirious as it gets into the night stint, and I like the fact that Valentino Rossi is now a BMW GT3 driver who competed at Le Mans.

The Rolex 24 at Daytona is probably more fun that Le Mans and its position on the calendar probably lets it get a handful of one-off drivers that may not be able to do Le Mans, but Le Mans also attracts plenty of unique talent as well. Ferrari doesn't do IMSA, nor does Toyota, nor does Valentino Rossi.

Would I like them to? Absolutely.

Am I fine with just having two different, successful endurance racing series on either side of the Atlantic? Absolutely. It's like the modern version of CART vs. Formula One as far as I'm concerned, only this time, I'm in a position to enjoy it.

So yeah, there are some things I prefer about IMSA, but there's plenty I love about Le Mans as well.

Hell, the fact that after the sister Ferrari won last year, we got to see the #50 Ferrari of Nicklas Nielsen, Miguel Molina, and Antonio Fuoco win. Both cars have now won Le Mans, and this means that last year's Antonio Giovinazzi, and this year's Antonio Fuoco - two drivers I've followed since the mid-to-late 2010s when they were actively in the open wheel junior series - are both Le Mans winners.

That's cool. I love the fact that drivers can fulfill their dream of winning for Ferrari, not just in Formula One, but now at Le Mans too. It's a great time to see, and between this and Indycar, I'm developing a lot of hope for talented junior drivers without F1 prospects.

Hell, on that very note, Felipe Drugovich raced at Le Mans for Action Express Cadillac this year, which seems to be his first time back in a major racing series since his F2 title campaign. Glad to see him back behind the wheel, just wish it went better for him.

Anyway, this last weekend of racing was a bit of a dud for me and I find myself busy yet again, so I'll leave the blogpost here, but do let you know what you think!

[adore-laur]

FAÇADE

— a lustful enemies to lovers au set in the 1880’s 📖

I

Blair Lancaster unabashedly loathes Mr. Styles. 

He always licks his slender index finger before flipping the weathered pages of a romance novel. She internally sympathizes with whoever is doomed to take home the book that had been in his filthy grasp. 

He loudly clears his throat in the hushed space of the library, far too often for her liking. She is beginning to wonder if he caught the fatal consumption disease and has a secret scheme to spread it across the city. 

He viciously studies her and the other women like a predatory bird hunting its unguarded prey. She compares his calloused hands to the talons of a hawk and his blatant staring to their beady little eyes. 

Perhaps Blair does not entirely loathe him. The feeling is more akin to a deep-rooted dislike for the man who supervises the alcove filled with women crammed around a small, oval table. No seats are provided, leaving them to stand on their aching feet for an unsuitable number of hours. 

At the public library in Boston, New York, women are strictly required to segregate themselves from the men by sitting in the alcove if they wish to read books or write letters. Reading, however, proves rather bland when they are all given books about how a lady should properly act or ones that revoltingly mock their intellect. 

Yet there is a more covert reason why they are confined to the alcove. 

Library loafers is the coined term. Women have only recently been allowed access to the library, and there is a concern that they may be in danger from the men who lurk and loiter around the bookshelves and desks, leering at young ladies who just want the freedom of absorbing printed imagination. 

The hickory walls are decorated with paintings of foreground femininity, yet the intended purpose is a façade. 

See, the nook is still visible to other sections of the library. It resembles a shadowbox for the male gaze, or a stage of sorts, so they can observe the moral spectacle of well-behaved women. That is why Blair Lancaster detests the man sitting on his chair, more like a throne, flicking through pages of a far more exciting story than the one she holds. Mr. Styles is the one who polices their behavior, making sure no one is stepping out of line or provocatively reading something they are not supposed to. 

Well, Blair enjoys pushing that limit every once in a while out of sheer apathy. 

Whenever the book she reads starts to bore her to death, she ponders ways to aggravate him. In the past, she sighed dramatically after turning each page for ten whole minutes until he had to snap his fingers, warning her to stop. She has also pretended to fall asleep with her head on the table, purposely reaching her arm out to knock the book onto the floor with a loud thump, resulting in him huffing and picking it up for her. In one instance, she purposely gave herself a paper cut and dripped blood onto the first page of the book she was given so it would have to be thrown out. She could tell by the look on Mr. Styles' face that he knew she had only done it to be a pain in the neck. 

Today, she decides to clear her throat every time he does. Only four other women are in the room, and Blair knows they like it when she breaks the quietness to bring entertainment to the dull atmosphere. 

"Enough," Mr. Styles commands after her third act of mimicry. 

She smirks and continues reading the same sentence repeatedly until she becomes bored. After a few minutes pass, he clears his throat again, and she does the same. 

"Ms. Lancaster, may I have a word with you?" 

Blair subtly rolls her eyes. She hates it when he treats her like a schoolgirl in detention, lecturing and speaking down to her as if she is inferior. 

"What is it, Mr. Styles?" she asks as she walks over to him, feigning innocence to pester him even more. 

He stares at her intensely. "Do you fancy being expelled from this library?" 

"I think there is something in my throat," she says with a dramatic pout. "The book I was given is quite dusty." 

He hums monotonously. "I must say, that was a terrible fib. I expected a better excuse from you." 

Blair's lips twitch as she fixes the collar of her dress. "I do not fib, Mr. Styles. Allergies are dreadful this time of year; have you not heard? Or maybe you and I have caught..." She leans forward to theatrically whisper, “The consumption disease." 

"Your hands fidget when you lie." With an unimpressed look, he jerks his chin toward the table. "Behave. Otherwise, you will be kicked out." 

The conversation, if it could even be called that, dies quickly as Blair returns to her spot. Her remaining time in the alcove causes drooping eyes and raw, bitten nails. There is nothing she could possibly do to make time pass any faster, so she watches the grandfather clock until it chimes when the small hand ticks to the number twelve. Blair promised her father she would be home for lunchtime, so she sets the book she only read two pages of in the wooden bin, then gives Mr. Styles an icy glare before leaving the library. 

On her stroll home, she reminisces about every encounter with him today. Every facial expression and unspoken word that was told with each glimpse. She buries the invasive thoughts that dangerously cross the streets of her mind. However, at dusk, he creeps into her brain's crevices like noxious venom. When her satin curtains are drawn and the burning sun says farewell, Blair cannot help but think about him after she blows out the candles beside her bed. 

His eyes of marjoram green that cast her discreet glances only she noticed. She wonders if she will ever get close enough to find specks of gold in them or if they crinkle when he laughs, lighting up with radiance that has never been revealed to her. There is a chance they soften when he reads a particularly romantic line in a novel, perhaps of a private touch or confession of love. 

His long fingers that flip through the worn pages of said novels. Blair wonders how they would feel slowly trailing along her arm, leaving goosebumps in their wake, or how they would feel in her mouth, the pad of his thumb erotically settled between her teeth. There is a possibility that they would stretch inside another part of her body so deeply that her entire soul would ache with pleasure. 

His pink lips, which pout and glisten in the sunlight filtered through the clerestory windows of the library. She wonders how they would form around certain words or if they feel as soft as they look, pillowy and sweet if she were to taste them. She will not taste them, but it is nice to dream about the flawless physicality of a man such as himself. 

Mr. Styles may be unbearable and shrouded in arrogance, but that does not dismiss his obvious allure. He is nothing but a pretty face that haunts her at nightfall, hung high in the gallery of her mind like the moon in the starlit sky. 

He has a complicated façade. 

II 

A spring thunderstorm has blown over the newspaper stands and matted down Blair's curls as she traverses up the slippery brick steps of the library again. Violent rain hits the cobblestone streets, which are filled with umbrellas over heads and coats over the less fortunate as they all maneuver to the closest shelter. 

Blair has forgone any protection from the storm, so she passes through the familiar threshold with a saturated dress and dripping strands of blonde hair that appear a shade darker due to their wetted state. As she looks around, she finds the library completely barren of townsfolk except for a stout man who bustles up to her and huffs a displeased breath when he sees the puddle of rainwater forming by her feet. She hopes he overlooks the trail of muddy footprints she left behind. 

"Good evening, Ms. Lancaster," he greets with a formal cap tip. "The unfortunate weather has sprung a leak in the alcove ceiling, so you will be relocated to the main room for the day." 

Blair nods, attempting to hide the eager smile that threatens to pull at her freckled cheeks. It will be alleviating to not have to tolerate being confined in a stodgy room with Mr. Styles. She prays she will have the whole room to herself so she can conceive a plan to sneakily grab a horror fiction book while the thunder rumbles outside. 

She follows the man who, if she remembers correctly, is the chimney sweeper usually found by the stone fireplace, soot dusting his forehead and coughing up a storm stronger than the one currently shaking the bookshelves. Speaking of which, the first thing Blair notices when she enters the candlelit room is that the bookshelves are all locked up with hexagonal metal cages. The flickering flames dance off them menacingly.

She furrows her eyebrows when the man's presence is no longer felt beside her. Then she feels someone else's burning gaze. A sudden flash of lightning conducts her attention to the other side of the room, and simmering rage immediately courses through her veins. 

Mr. Styles is sitting on the windowsill with his legs crossed over one another. His jeweled fingers delicately hold a book as relentless rain pelts the windowpane behind him. He wears a silk shirt with small, puffed sleeves the color of ballet slippers—or perhaps the shade of blush that spreads across his cheeks when Blair catches his not-so-subtle glance at her pebbled nipples under her soaked dress. 

Blair's first step toward him creates an echoing creak on the wooden floor. "What business do you have being here?" she asks bitterly. 

He smirks before licking his index finger and flipping the page of his book. "Have you forgotten that this is my place of work?" 

She swallows down her disgust. "I would rather sit in the alcove and let the leakage slowly drown me than be here with you." 

He looks up amusedly, running his eyes across her figure. "From how you look like a sopping mess, it seems as though you already have." 

"A bit preposterous coming from a man with puffy princess sleeves." 

A hummed and humorless laugh sounds from his closed lips. A cup of tea is steaming on a porcelain saucer next to his thighs. The sight of the brown liquid coats her throat with warmth. 

Blair is quiet as she treads closer and walks her fingers along the top of the leather couch. The popping and hissing of the nearby fireplace fills the dead silence, its blazes of orange releasing glowing embers that beautifully fizzle out on the kindling. 

"I presumed you would be the only one here today," Mr. Styles mentions after an elongated and intimidating pause. 

Blair stands next to the fire, hoping it dries her dripping dress. "Yes, well, a thunderstorm is quintessential weather for reading. Is it not?" 

"I will not argue with you there." He stands, replacing his book with the saucer. "This tea is for you. I figured since you will be stuck with me in this room, I shall attempt to make it as pleasant as possible." 

She narrows her eyes suspiciously. "You made tea for me?" 

His throat bobs. "Walking here in the rain is the quickest way to become ill, Ms. Lancaster. You should know better." 

"Is it poisoned?" 

The click of Mr. Styles' boots becomes muffled once he steps on the oriental rug she stands on. "No. I am not as cynical as you make me out to be in your head." 

She pushes her wet bangs away from her forehead. "Do you know what is cynical?" 

"Divertis-moi, ange de la pluie."

Blair ignores his French, which she does not understand. She has heard him use the language countless times before if any immigrant women are misbehaving in the alcove. His fluency and intelligence spark envy, but she will never admit it to his face.

"It is cynical that I come here every day and do not have the freedom to read what I desire," she says firmly. "Some days, I do not want to read in my dreary bedroom, so I seek serenity in a library that does not even respect me. How cruel, yet I still come here for a view other than my pathetic lawn!"

All Mr. Styles does is clear his throat while setting the tea down on the fireplace mantel. Blair wants to pour the scalding liquid down the back of his neck. 

"What am I supposed to read if all the books I yearn for are locked away?" she adds defeatedly. 

He twists his rings and nods his head at a red book on the couch. "I was instructed to provide The Scarlet Letter." 

Blair examines the chipped spine and faded cover. "I have not read that one yet."

"Veiled misogyny is what fills the pages. I find Hawthorne to be glorified as an author to a ridiculous degree." 

"How promising," she mutters. "I suppose it is better than reading about everything I should do for my dutiful husband when he returns from war." 

Mr. Styles looks at the floor and scrunches his nose before asking, "You have heard of Jane Austen, yes?" 

"What?" Blair blurts confusedly. "Of course I have. No one captures blooming romance quite like her." 

"And did you see anyone else in the library when you arrived?" he questions further while taking a step closer. 

"N-no," she stutters, scanning the empty room. "Only the chimney sweeper." 

"Then follow me." 

In the blink of an eye, Mr. Styles is halfway up the spiral staircase in the corner that leads to a place Blair has never been allowed to discover. She carefully grabs the tea and a stray candelabra, then catches up to his long strides. Eventually, she is led to the top and down a dark, narrow aisle where books upon books line the walls. Some are even stacked high on the floor. 

Mr. Styles takes a silver key from his trouser pocket and unlocks a shelf on the left. He briefly peeks at her. "It will be our little secret, hmm?"

Blair marvels at the various romance and gothic titles that reveal themselves when she raises the flame. Wuthering Heights, Little Women, and Vanity Fair appear to have been gracefully worn over time and through use. 

"I was once told by the owner that there was nothing important up here," she tells him as her fingertips trace the spine of Persuasion. "I never quite believed him." 

Mr. Styles stands behind her. She can feel his steady breaths on her neck. "I apologize on behalf of him. He is not a charming man, that one." 

Clark Bennett is his name. The tall, middle-aged rich man who set the misogynistic rules in place. She sees him roam past the alcove on rare occasions, silently inspecting the women through his monocle. Never one to initiate conversation, yet always the one to give disapproving glances. It angers Blair to think someone could be so despicable. The other women are too afraid to speak out about the abhorrent environment he has created. 

So, Blair turns around and looks at the man she despises, but he is the only one who seems to care about what she has to say. 

"Mr. Styles," she begins, lifting the candelabra to light his face, "I feel unbearably suffocated in a place meant for comfort. As a woman, I cannot even read in this library without arbitrary rules that bring me unfathomable misery and rage. Having to sit and read sentences with no emotional attachment to me is torturous. Surely, I do not sound ludicrous."

"You can call me Harry," he responds. 

She scoffs at his blatant disregard. "Did you listen to a word I said?" 

He nods. "Yes, Blair. I realize this world hinders your ability to prosper as a woman, but I cannot change the rules. I do not have the authority, so please accept my offer of letting you read something other than shameful, discriminatory novels. Is that all right with you?" 

She takes a sip of the herbal tea, now lukewarm, before saying, "Is this a trick to get me in trouble? I will not be fooled, Mr. Styles." 

"Harry," he corrects. "And no, I am not a scoundrel. There is no reason for me to con you." 

"There are plenty of reasons. Money and praise can make a man do evil things." 

"Do you take me for a man who would do evil things?" 

"Yes." She takes another sip. "I take every man for a schmuck. You are no exception." 

He leans his head against the bookshelf and smiles handsomely. "A schmuck?" he repeats humorously.

"A cretin," she continues, enjoying herself very much. "A muttonhead. Personally, I like to call men ratbags." 

Harry's eyes crinkle when he lets out a loud cackle. So they do crinkle. What a sight to behold! 

Blair blows a strand of hair out of her eye. "This is not a laughing matter." 

"Oh, but it is." He pushes his body off the shelf and towers over her. "You fascinate me with your unwavering temerity." 

"Is that why you stare at me in the alcove so often?" she daringly inquires. "Because I fascinate you?" 

Harry inhales slowly and deeply. In French, he says, "I stare at you because of your ethereal beauty. I cannot help but count the freckles on your cheeks or watch your eyelashes flutter as you flip through the pages of those terrible books. Does this answer your question, beloved blue eyes?"

Blair blinks twice, shaking her head. "You are speaking nonsense to me. I do not know any French." 

"I spoke the truth. That is all you need to know." 

She sets the tea and candelabra on the floor before smoothing her dress. "Anyway, I would very much like to read Jane Austen. There is only so much time in the day, yes?" 

"Of course," he whispers. "You seem particularly interested in Persuasion." 

"Is it good? I have not gotten around to reading it yet." 

Harry takes the book and offers it to her. "You pierce my soul. I am half agony, half hope," he quotes from memory. "That alone should convince you." 

Blair absentmindedly nods, becoming distracted by the gold necklace he wears. The pendant is a cross symbol, one relating to Christ. Her curiosity grows as it glimmers from the quivering candle flame beside her feet. 

She lays the cross on her open palm and asks, "Are you religious?" 

His sloped nose almost touches hers in close proximity. "Moderately. I sin, but I see no redemption in asking for forgiveness. I suppose you can interpret my level of religion however you please." 

She stares at his lips a second too long before meeting his eyes. "What sins do you commit?" 

He covers her hand with his own. Blair feels his calloused thumb brush over her knuckle. "My sins are sensuellement privé." 

"What does that mean?" 

"It means they are done in private, curious girl." 

Her skin grows warm. "Very well, then. I will not ask further questions." 

He removes his hand and locks the shelf as Blair picks up her tea and sets it on the flat surface of her new book. He clears his throat, but it does not bother her as much this time. 

"Let us read, shall we?" 

III

The field of jasmine flowers is in full bloom, as is the month of May. 

Budding dogwood trees sway under the cloudy sky as Blair walks to her favorite open patch of land to sit against the tree trunk and read a book, like she does every Friday afternoon. The bottom of her white dress skims the dirt path weaving throughout the flourishing meadow. Her lace parasol shields the top of her head in case the sun peeks out. 

She has been coming to the serene area for months, sometimes needing an escape from the four walls of her bedroom. She can bring the books she has received on her birthdays. Although she prefers to read in the library, she is slightly more fond of nature's quiet atmosphere. 

Once she arrives at her signature spot, where the line of dogwood trees provides the perfect amount of coverage over the jasmine bushes, she stops when she sees someone already there. 

Her blood boils. Mr. Styles, now known as Harry, is sitting against the gnarled trunk of her favorite tree with his ankles casually crossed while he reads from the book in his lap. He wears a ruffled, cream-colored blouse with a black vest over the silk fabric, and his matching flared trousers are provocatively tight against his muscular legs. 

His eyes shoot up from his book when a twig snaps underneath her feet. He then raises it to block his face, and Blair almost laughs at the childish action. She is seething with rage because how dare he invade the only place she can get much-needed peace and quiet? 

"What are you doing here?" she interrogates, a slight growl in the back of her throat. 

"Reading," Harry replies flatly, still not showing his face. 

"Yes, but why here? This is my spot." 

"I usually only come here on Wednesdays when I do not work, but I was told my help was not needed at the library today. So, here I am." 

Blair grinds her teeth. "Can you go elsewhere?" 

He sets his book down and glances behind each of his shoulders. "Did I miss a sign on my way here that said: Blair Lancaster's Designated Reading Spot?" 

She gives up arguing and sits against the prickly bush across from him. She is thankful he is not talkative, so finishing her book in his presence should not be a problem. 

After a few minutes of unpleasant silence, she feels his gaze on her, but when she looks up, his eyes dart back to the pages before him. She subtly tries to read the title, but his attractively large hand envelops the front. 

"The Portrait of a Lady," Harry murmurs as he noisily turns a page. 

Blair quirks an eyebrow. "Pardon me?" 

"The book in my hands," he says, finally showing her the cover. "It is the new novel written by Henry James." 

"I did not ask." 

He exhales a laugh through his nose. "Well, you keep looking at the cover, so I thought it would be gentlemanly to save you from straining your eyes so much. Getting cataracts at a young age would be no fun." 

Blair brushes off his sarcasm and opens her own book. Harry immediately leans forward and snatches it straight from her loose grip. 

"Give me that back!" she exclaims, her mouth parted in shock. 

He lifts it above his head and opens it. "What does the brash Blair Lancaster read when she is not provided chauvinist books in the alcove?" 

She stands and puts her hand on her hips. "That is nothing of concern to you." 

"Venus in Furs," he reads from the spine with a drawl and growing smirk. "This is quite an erotic choice, chérie." 

Her cheeks redden as he flips through the pages filled with risqué words of desire and submission. "Give me my book back, or I will scream until the flowers wilt." 

Harry ignores her as he dramatically reads, "And every man—I know this very well—as soon as he falls in love becomes weak, pliable, ridiculous. He puts himself into the woman's hands, kneels down before her. The only man whom I could love permanently would be he before whom I should have to kneel."

Blair takes the opportunity to yank her book from him while he is distracted by his immature ways. "I truly pity your wife and children for having to live with your irritating nature," she says exasperatedly. 

"I do not have a wife or children, so you are wasting your time pitying the foolish illusion you have created in your head." 

"Well," she says with a bitter laugh, "it is no surprise that you are not married. I think I would burn myself alive if I had to share a life with you." 

"For someone who speaks so ignoble of me, you think about what it would be like to be around me quite often," he responds smugly. 

"You are an insufferable man, that is all." 

"Menteuse."

Blair draws her lips back in a snarl. "It is a terrible shame you have a handsome face that is nothing but a façade for who you actually are." 

Harry slowly stands and shoves his hands into his pockets. "And who am I, Blair?" 

She exhales and looks up at the wispy sky. "A lonely man who sits in the alcove and makes sure the women there are miserable. A boring man who does nothing but be a nuisance to everyone around him." 

Harry steps forward and jerks his chin up, like he's desperate for a challenge. "Go on." 

"I detest you." She leans in close so he hears every word. "Every dratted thing you do or say gets under my skin." 

He quickly glances at her mouth. "Do you use such foul language around your mother, Ms. Lancaster?" 

She clenches her jaw and turns around, beginning to walk down the path she came from. "You make me furious!" 

His footsteps in the weeds get closer, so she speeds up. Even the sound of his boots stomping on the plush grass aggravates her. The way he can never let her have the last word, or how his eyes tell a different story than what comes out of his pretty mouth, will be the death of her. 

Blair thinks she is far enough away from him, but suddenly, two large hands clasp onto her hips and stop her in her tracks. Her book falls to the ground, and she is left breathless. 

"If I make you furious," Harry murmurs deeply in her ear, "then you make me a fucking madman." 

His chest is pressed against her back as they inhale and exhale heavily, butterflies flying around the flowers and hidden cicadas chirping in the meadow. 

"You test my patience, and I pretend it provokes me," he continues, flexing his hands. "It does the opposite, Blair. It makes me lust for you." 

She lets Harry's confession seep into her skin like pleasurable poison. "I... you are reprehensible. I cannot stand it when you tell such insolent lies." 

He presses his nose into her neck. "You render me weak. I think about you until I ache." 

Blair swallows roughly when his damp lips trail along her pulse point. "Every word that leaves your mouth is concocted to debilitate me." 

"Your blue eyes are an ocean I would gladly drown in." 

Her knees almost give out, but she persists. "I will stuff my book down your throat if you do not stop blathering." 

"You would like that, I reckon."

"Jesus wept, I hate you!" she shouts as she releases herself from his spell and continues walking. 

He grips her wrist and spins her around. "Look at me when you say you hate me." 

"I hate"—Blair points her finger at his chest—"you." 

Harry takes three of her fingers and brings them up to her bottom lip. "These," he whispers, his eyes locked on her mouth. "I could write endless poetry about them." 

"Stop it this instant." 

He moves one of her fingers to trace the freckles dotting the apples of her cheeks. "The most marvelous constellations should be envious of these." 

Her eyes soften, much to her distaste. "Please," she says, not knowing how she intends the word to come across. 

"Tell me what you want, mon rêve céleste." 

"I want you to shut your mouth." 

His knuckles brush her collarbone. "Do you? Or do you want me to use my mouth for something else?" 

Blair steps away from him. "How dare you assume that!" 

"Quit looking at my lips, then." 

"I am not! Quit analyzing me!" 

"Your cheeks are pink. Why is that?" 

She feels like fire is encompassing her. "Because..."

Harry bends down slightly to be at eye level with her. "Look at me, Blair." 

Her walls crumble at that moment when she sees nothing but lustful hunger in his eyes. She gives in because if she goes down, let it be in a blaze of flaming desire. She cannot bear the thought of not touching him at least once in her lifetime, as much as she hates to admit the fact. 

Blair unclasps the button by her cleavage, never breaking eye contact with him as his posture straightens and his prurient gaze gradually lowers. She maneuvers the dress over and down her shoulders, letting the loose garment pool at her feet. Harry drops to his knees before her, pulling down her chemise and gently removing her ivory-colored slippers. 

"Lie down," he commands gruffly.

She obeys. The budding flowers surround her naked body as her blonde hair fans out on the grass. 

Harry spreads her legs open and places his forearms next to them. "How do you need me, Blair?"

"Your fingers," she responds. "Please. I need them inside of me." 

He tuts mockingly. "Not even a minute ago, you were telling me I was reprehensible, but now you beg like a whore." 

She should slap him for his degrading language, but it only fuels her internal fire. Her hips desperately lift to meet his knuckle running along her inner thigh, and he moves it up even further until it reaches the coarse hair growing around her pelvis. She is already dripping with arousal. His fingers are so close to where she needs them most.

"Harry," she says breathlessly, her body writhing when his mouth brushes her clit. "God, just touch me. I beg of you." 

"Say my name like that again, and I will do whatever you ask of me, darling." 

"Harry," she moans while arching her back. 

His fingers finally stretch her open, two knuckles deep in her pulsating walls, creating a burning sensation throughout her body. She had dreamed about how deep they would go, curling and thrusting to bring her inconceivable pleasure. It feels better than she imagined, and she sees stars as his thumb applies pressure to her clit. 

"Blair." Harry uses his free hand to grasp her jaw. She opens her eyes and gets lost in his fervent gaze. "Who else has touched you? Hmm? Tell me." 

He hits a particularly deep spot that has her whining like a pleading idiot. "M-many others, however, they all left me empty and unsatisfied." 

"Did they make you wet?" He presses his warm hand against her lower stomach. "Did they leave you with a lingering ache right here?" 

"No, but do you know why?" she responds, the pressure of his hand unraveling the knot of her forthcoming orgasm. 

"Tell me all your secrets, flower." 

"They never used their mouths," she admits. Harry looks up with impure eyes and runs his tongue over his bottom lip. "Fingers can only provide so much pleasure, but a pair of pink lips like yours could make me fall apart completely." 

"Is that right?" he breathes out. 

She bites her lip with a blissful smile. "There is only one way to find out, yes?" 

"I suppose so." 

He takes his fingers out and spreads her thighs further open, her arousal sticking to her sweaty skin. The second his tongue licks a long stripe from her opening to her clit, Blair cries out for all the birds and bugs to hear. He laps up her wetness like sweet syrup on a delectable dessert. He kisses and nips in all the right places, like he has known her body for ages, latching and sucking her most sensitive areas until she is clenching around nothing. Low, guttural groans and whimpers leave him when she grants him a raspy moan and hooks her legs around his body. 

"I need... I have to release, Harry. It aches." 

He hovers over her and rubs slow circles on her lower stomach. "Let me see your eyes while you fall apart from underneath me." 

Blair looks at him as his words push her off the edge. She releases, her body trembling and twitching from the strength of it. Harry sits back on his knees, untying the frilly bow from his blouse and using it to clean the remaining arousal around her inner thighs. After that, Blair stands on shaky legs, panting with tingling skin, as Harry grabs her chemise and dress and helps her put them on. 

"Do you still hate me?" he whispers in her ear, clasping her buttons gently. Blair can hear the smug smile in his voice. 

"Maybe a bit less than yesterday." 

His tongue pokes the inside of his cheek. "What if I did this?" She is taken aback when he kisses her deeply, holding the sides of her neck and making her stumble a bit from the forceful passion. "Blair?" he says as he pulls away. "How do you feel now?" 

"I dislike you." Another kiss—one that sends heat spreading across her entire body as butterflies go wild in her stomach. She pulls away from him this time and tries not to show how fond she is of him. "All right, I tolerate you." 

One more long kiss, ending in several pecks, until she lets a smile take over her flushed face. "Je changerai d'avis un jour." (I will change your mind one day.)

Blair groans. "Will you ever tell me what you are saying?" 

"No need." His thumb strokes her cheekbone. "I can always teach you." 

"Pardon?"

"At the library," Harry elaborates softly. "I give French lessons every Monday in the study room. There should be some time slots open if that is of any interest to you." 

She contemplates briefly before saying, "I think it would be an adequate way to spend my day rather than in the alcove." 

Harry whistles and looks around incredulously. "Is Blair Lancaster admitting she would not mind spending time with me? Am I dreaming? Have I lost my bloody mind in this meadow?" 

"Enough," she mutters. Her protest ends in a squeal when Harry slightly nips at her neck. "Stop it! That tickles!" 

He grins like a fool and bends down to pluck a jasmine flower from the cluster surrounding her feet. He then grabs Venus in Furs and flips through it for a minute until he stops at a specific page toward the end. Blair watches him lay the flower horizontally, the thin stem acting as an underline for a quote. 

~ 

You have corrupted my imagination

and inflamed my blood.

~

[neopronouns]

flag id: the right flag has 7 stripes, with the first and seventh being smaller than the rest. they are dull tan, dull medium brown, dark faded green, light yellow-green, dark faded green, dull medium brown, and dull tan.

the right flag has 6 stripes, which are dark faded green, dull tan, dull medium brown, dull tan, dull medium brown, and dark faded green. there is a single vertical dark faded green stripe at the left edge, as wide as the rest of the stripes are tall, and a horizontal dark faded green stripe of the same height as the rest of the stripes extending from the center of the vertical stripe to about the middle of the flag. extending from the right edge of that horizontal stripe is a wide dark faded green hexagon outline with a tall dark faded green oval outline in the center, forming an eye shape. the 'white' of the eye is filled in with cream and the 'pupil' is filled in with light yellow-green. end id.

banner id: a 1600x200 teal banner with the words ‘please read my dni before interacting. those on my / dni may still use my terms, so do not recoin them.’ in large white text in the center. the text takes up two lines, split at the slash. end id.

avarchivist | avarchivistnous

avarchivist: a gender related to being the archivist ('the magnus archives')

avarchivistnous: an occuae related to being the archivist ('the magnus archives')

[pt: avarchivist: a gender related to being the archivist ('the magnus archives')

avarchivistnous: an occuae related to being the archivist ('the magnus archives'). end pt]

day 6 of @radiomogai's 1k coining event, 'the eye/occunous'!

the flags use colors from the avaeye flag and that i associate with archiving, and the avarchivistnous flag uses the occunous format. the terms are 'ava' from 'avatar' + 'archivist' and that + 'nous' from 'occunous'!

tags: @liom-archive, @macchiane, @genderstarbucks, @sugar-and-vice-mogai | dni link

[clowncary]

Alternative Attachments/Alt-attachments

Alt-attachment is a term referring to when an alterhuman falsely attachs onto a source/a type because of surrounding sources/types that other people have. Types and shifts are collected and/or dismissed based on who you are surrounded with and their individual types.

I coined this in 2022 and this is its official coining post. Archive this please.

I will now explain how different they are from cameo shifts, flickers, links and hearttypes.

A cameo shift is a category of shifts that happen with types that are not your own or do not belong to you.

Alt-attachment is not a shift and does not require shifts to latch onto identities. Alt-attachments are also not temporary things, they are sometimes predetermined by a set of feelings- waiting to be set off by people they can latch onto. Cameo shifts do not always contain an immediate or follow up of intense feelings of controlling yourself as something other than you.

A flicker is an identity that “flickers” into existence when media, knowledge or awareness of a source is consumed. It involves a changing perception of yourself as or in relation to that source. Many say it is like imprinting.

Alt-attaching does not come voluntarily at some points and appears to have a spontaneous formation. I will agree that the idea of changing perception would be a thing in those intense feelings I have described.

An otherlink, copinglink or -link is an identity that you link yourself to in order to use it for something, cope or for fun.

Alt-attaching is nothing like copinglinks or otherlinking at all. It may be for coping or to hoard identities with your choice to keep or toss when they benefit you but it is not voluntary.

A heartype, otherhearted or -hearted is an identity where you identify with the feelings, urges or the heart of a character, animal or creature. These feelings may be bonds like family or friend, which is usually used in the form of otherkith, kithtype and -kith.

Alt-attachment has the intense feelings and urges that are similar to heartypes/otherhearted people but they are not the same and do not act the same either.

Alt-attaching is the involuntary act of taking on the alterhumanity of others around you.

Cycling is experiencing a form of connection with said people, and the eventual absolving of said identity, to then pick up another form of alterhumanity from someone else.

Alt-attacher is someone who does so.

Flag colors, top to bottom; Black, Lemon yellow, Nut brown, Light brown. Symbol is a thick white triangle with a white oval through it. Representative of a door with a knocker on it.

[mantra-repeated]

Extra assigned gender at death terms

Pt: Extra assigned gender at death terms :End Pt

assigned Idenblur at death / AibAD

Assigned pangender at death /APAD

Assigned Outherine at death / AouAD

Assigned multigender at death / AMAD

Assigned Occunous at death / AocAD

Coined for those who for whatever reason either have their gender/sex assigned at birth and/or creation differ from their assigned gender/sex at death, and/or for those who are already dead for whatever reason (otherkin, alterhuman, fictive, introject, etc) and thus more strongly align with the concept of their gender/sex being assigned at their death, as opposed to their birth.

Mentions / Tags: @radiomogai, @neoagab, @agab-archive, @rwuffles

Banner transcript: This term was made by an Endogenic. Anyone can use it however (So don't repost or recoin) :End Transcript

AibAD flag 1 id: A flag with 9 wavy vertical stripes with every other stripe being much thinner. The colors are from left to dark orange, desaturated light orange, very dark yellow, desaturated yellow, desaturated very light blue, desaturated very light blue, desaturated light blue, desaturated dark blue, desaturated blue, desaturated very dark blue. In the center of the flag is a crooked mirror, where part of the mirror is cracked. :End Id

AibAD flag 2 id: A flag with 9 wavy vertical stripes with every other stripe being much thinner. The colors are from left to dark orange, desaturated light orange, very dark yellow, desaturated yellow, desaturated very light blue, desaturated very light blue, desaturated light blue, desaturated dark blue, desaturated blue, desaturated very dark blue. :End id

APAD flag 1 id: A flag with 7 wavy vertical stripes with the colors being from left to desaturated yellow, dark orange, dark pink, grey, dark pink, dark orange, desaturated yellow. :End Id

APAD flag 2 id: A flag with 7 wavy vertical stripes with the colors being from left to desaturated yellow, dark orange, dark pink, grey, dark pink, dark orange, desaturated yellow. In the center of the flag is a dark grey pangender symbol. :End Id

AouAD flag 1 id: A flag with 8 wavy vertical stripes with the colors being from left to right, dark purple, dark teal, dark green, light desaturated light green, desaturated yellow, light desaturated brown, dark desaturated brown, very dark brown. In the center of the flag is a dark grey outherine gender symbol, a tesseract. :End Id

AouAD flag 2 id: A flag with 8 wavy vertical stripes with the colors being from left to right, dark purple, dark teal, dark green, light desaturated light green, desaturated yellow, light desaturated brown, dark desaturated brown, very dark brown. :End Id

AMAD flag id: A flag with 5 wavy vertical stripes with the colors being from left to being black, dark grey, dark pink, dark yellow, and dark blue. :End Id

AocAD Flag id: a flag with 6 equally sized wavey vertical stripes. from left to right the colors are an black, dark off white, dark green, dark off-white, dark green, black. A black vertical stripe sticks out from its middle about halfway across the flag. sticking out from that is a long hexagon with an oval in the middle, creating an eye symbol. the line widths of the eye vary. :End Id

[chic-a-gigot]

La Mode illustrée, no. 8, 21 février 1897, Paris.

Toilette de promenade. Modèle de chez Mme Gradoz, rue de Provence, 67.

Tablier suédois pour jeune fille. Modèle de chez Mlle Rimbot, rue de Richelieu, 73.

Robe d'intérieur en cachemire uni et cachemire brodé. Modèle de chez Mmes Coussinet-Piret, rue Richer, 43.

Toilette de jeune fille en mohair gris. Mod. de chez Mmes Brun-Cailleux, r. de la Victoire, 48.

Robe en serge d'Irlande vert. Modèle de chez Mmes Coussinet-Piret, rue Richer, 43.

Robe en mohair bleu marine. Modèle de chez Mme Gradoz, rue de Provence, 67.

Ville de Paris / Bibliothèque Forney

Toilette de promenade.

Robe en drap mastic. Un galon de passementerie simule sur la jupe une robe de dessus aux deux coins de laquelle se trouvent des ornements en passementerie. Le corsage plat fait à pointe s'ouvre avec de larges revers sur un plastron plissé en soie de nuance claire, terminé au bord supérieur par un col droit plissé en soie. Les revers encadrés de galons en passementerie se rattachent derrière à un col carré; on rattache aux devants une ceinture Médicis en velours, ornée de grands boutons de nacre. Les manches garnies de galons en passementerie, ont des bouillonnés courts.

Mastic cloth dress. A trimming braid on the skirt simulates an outer dress on both corners of which are trimmings ornaments. The flat pointed bodice opens with wide lapels onto a pleated light silk bib, finished at the upper edge with a straight pleated silk collar. The lapels framed with braids are attached behind to a square collar; A Medici velvet belt is attached to the front, decorated with large mother-of-pearl buttons. The sleeves, trimmed with trimmings, have short ruffles.

—

Tablier suédois pour jeune fille.

Ce tablier suédois est fait en drap léger jaune soufre foncé; il se compose d'un seul morceau droit ayant 65 centimètres de largeur, 1 mètre 12 de longueur; ce morceau est froncé deux fois au bord supérieur, de façon à lui laiser 26 centimètres de largeur; on l'orne avec un morceau replié en dessus, triangulaire coupé en drap brun clair, ayant 16 centimètres de largeur au milieu, 4 centimètres sur les côtés, orné d'une bordure brodée étroite. On fixe sur le bord inférieur une bordure en drap brun clair ayant 26 centimètres de largeur, et l'on coud en même temps au bord inférieur du tablier une double bande de drap soufre, ayant 4 centimètres de hauteur, brodée de légères courbes au point de cordonnet. Les motifs ronds et ovales des deux bordures, dont les fig. 36 et 37 représentent le dessin, sont appliqués partie en soie vert olive, partie en soie blanche; on les brode en soie de cordonnet blanche, jaune, bleue au passé et points de fantaisie; les autres motifs sont faits avec les mêmes couleurs au passé et au point de cordonnet. Le tablier est retenu à la taille par une ceinture en drap jaune; le plastron du tablier est fixé au corsage par des épingles de fantaisie.

Le tablier peut être également exécuté en toile de couleur, et orné de bordures au point de cordonnet ou bien au point de croix.

This Swedish apron is made of light dark sulfur yellow cloth; it consists of a single straight piece 65 centimeters wide, 1 meter 12 long; this piece is gathered twice at the upper edge, so as to leave it 26 centimeters wide; it is decorated with a piece folded on top, triangular cut from light brown cloth, 16 centimeters wide in the middle, 4 centimeters on the sides, decorated with a narrow embroidered border. We attach to the lower edge a border of light brown cloth 26 centimeters wide, and at the same time we sew to the lower edge of the apron a double strip of sulfur cloth, 4 centimeters high, embroidered with slight curves in stitch. cord. The round and oval patterns of the two borders, including figs. 36 and 37 represent the design, are applied partly in olive green silk, partly in white silk; they are embroidered in white, yellow, blue cord silk with paste and fancy stitches; the other patterns are made with the same colors in past and cord stitch. The apron is held at the waist by a yellow cloth belt; the bib of the apron is attached to the bodice with fancy pins.

The apron can also be made in colored canvas, and decorated with cord stitch or cross stitch borders.

—

Robe d'intérieur en cachemire uni et cachemire brodé.

Cette robe est faite en cachemire bleu pâle uni, et cachemire brodé de même couleur. La robe-princesse est faite en cachemire uni; le plastron, les manches et la garniture sont faits en cachemire brodé. Les devants sont croisés et terminés à gauche sous une draperie formant écharpe. Le col et les manches sont entourés d'une fraise en cachemire.

This dress is made in plain pale blue cashmere, and embroidered cashmere of the same color. The princess dress is made of plain cashmere; the bib, sleeves and trim are made of embroidered cashmere. The fronts are crossed and finished on the left under a drapery forming a scarf. The collar and sleeves are surrounded by a cashmere ruff.

—

Toilette de jeune fille en mohair gris.

La jupe en mohair gris est entourée de six rangs de galons-mohair gris foncé; le corsage-blouse est orné devant et derrière de quatre rangs de galons. La fermeture du corsage sur le côté est couverte par un double volant de velours. Ceinture et col droit en velours; la ceinture est ornée d'un nœud sur le côté, on fait retomber une fraise en dentelle sur le col droit. Les manches terminées par un volant de dentelle sont garnies de bouillonnés courts au bord supérieur.

Le chapeau rond en paille noire, est garnie de soie mauve et de gloxinias.

​The gray mohair skirt is surrounded by six rows of dark gray mohair braid; the bodice-blouse is decorated front and back with four rows of braid. The bodice closure on the side is covered by a double velvet ruffle. Belt and straight collar in velvet; the belt is decorated with a bow on the side, a lace ruff falls on the right collar. The sleeves ending with a lace ruffle are trimmed with short bubbles at the upper edge.

The round black straw hat is trimmed with mauve silk and gloxinias.

—

Robe en serge d'Irlande vert.

Cette robe faite en serge d'Irlande verte, est garnie de rubans de velours noir, qui ornent le côtés gauche et le bord inférieur de la jupe. On fixe sur les côtés trois beaux boutons et des boutonnières simulées. le corsage plat fermé devant en biais, est garni sur le devant de gauche, avec des rubans de velours posés horizontalement; on pose sur le devant un morceau plissé, formant revers, orné de ruban de velours. Une ceinture de velours entoure la taille et se termine sur le côté par un nœud. Le haut col droit est garni en ruban de velours. Les manches sont garnies de ruban de velours, et ornées au bord supérieur avec deux volants.

This dress, made in green Irish twill, is trimmed with black velvet ribbons, which adorn the left sides and the lower edge of the skirt. Three beautiful buttons and simulated buttonholes are attached to the sides. the flat bodice closed at the front at an angle, is trimmed on the left front, with velvet ribbons placed horizontally; we place on the front a pleated piece, forming a lapel, decorated with velvet ribbon. A velvet belt surrounds the waist and ends on the side with a bow. The high, straight collar is trimmed with velvet ribbon. The sleeves are trimmed with velvet ribbon, and decorated at the upper edge with two ruffles.

—

Robe en mohair bleu marine.

Cette robe en mohair bleu marine est garnie au bord inférieur de la jupe avec plusieurs rangées de galons et de soutaches. Cette garniture se reproduit sur la veste courte à revers carrés, ornée de beaux boutons. La veste à manches est posée sur une blouse sans manches en soie rouge plissée, terminée par une ceinture et un col droit en velours bleu marine.

This navy blue mohair dress is trimmed at the bottom edge of the skirt with several rows of braid and soutache. This trim is reproduced on the short jacket with square lapels, decorated with beautiful buttons. The sleeved jacket is placed over a sleeveless blouse in pleated red silk, finished with a navy blue velvet belt and stand-up collar.