#the descriptions were indeed magnificent

[tenrose]

So the critics were right about the secret history... It was good.

[flowerandblood]

The Price of Pride (6/?)

[ canon • Aemond x Royce • female ]

[ warnings: kissing, mutual masturbation, infidelity, smut, the angst, sexual tension, imprisonment, abuse of power, manipulation ]

[ description: Prince Aemond finds a solution to the disproportion in the number of dragons between Dragonstone and King's Landing: he decides to find dragon blood and, like his half-sister, train dragon riders. He takes as his target the daughter of Daemon Targaryen and Rhea Royce, whom he abducts and imprisons in the Red Keep. Slow burn, darkish, insolent, arrogant Aemond. I have combined several requests here: (dragon blood female & prisoner female). ]

* English is not my first language. Please, do not repost. Enjoy! *

Next chapters: Masterlist

_____

Never before had the wooden ceiling of a bed seemed so interesting to her.

The Maester was trying to be gentle and his touch was respectful – she knew that, but still what he was doing, the fact that there were other people around behind the cream curtains made her tense, even though she knew the verdict would be one.

When the examination was finally completed she sighed quietly and swallowed hard, rising on her elbow – she lowered her skirt down thinking she wouldn't give them the satisfaction and cry – Maester's voice and what he said was like honey to her ears.

"She is a maiden, My King. I have no doubt."

A moment later, she heard the sound of a door opening and closing with a loud slam.

Prince Aemond gave everyone an expression of his fury at this obviously unfounded accusation.

She took a quiet breath as someone pulled aside one of the veils – the king's face seemed satisfied, as if not the end result but the fact that he had once again shown his brother who had the last word was his reward.

"I am relieved, dear cousin, that you have come to no harm under my brother's care. I hope you understand that in no way did I mean to offend you or undermine your virtue." He said lightly, knowing that she could not reply anything other than to confirm his certainly sincere and good intentions.

"I am grateful to you for your concern, Your Grace." She replied, looking him straight in the eye, to her surprise feeling neither bitterness nor regret.

This would at least cut off any further gossip about her and the tongue of the servant who had given her pleasure that day, as promised by the prince.

She guessed he would not leave it at that.

"I wish to see your dragon and judge for myself the value he will bring to the upcoming battles. I also want him to stay in the Dragon's Pit with the rest of the dragons and not with Vhagar." He said, and she nodded, knowing that there was no point in standing up.

This brother or another, what difference did it make.

"He is still wild and untamed, my King. Accustomed to freedom. I fear that sudden confinement may kill his spirit." She replied softly.

Aegon nodded.

"I may yet change my decision. For now, I want to see him."

In accordance with his desire, he, she and a retinue consisting of several members of the Kingsguard, including Ser Criston Cole, set off on horseback to Vhagar's lair where the two dragons rested.

When they arrived, she felt joy, or rather a new kind of it, one she had experienced for the first time when she saw Sheepstealer.

Her dragon squawked happily at the sight of her, coming quickly up to her on his paws, watching her from all sides, intrigued, paying no attention to the other newcomers.

He was as sweet as a baby, she thought with tenderness, lonely for long years, craving tenderness, understanding and attention as much as she did.

He was everything she was, which is why the moment she first looked into his eyes she knew she would succeed in taming him.

She knew what he needed and she was able to give it to him, and he reciprocated.

Her dragon was the only man she needed.

"Magnificent. Fierce. And large indeed. Bigger than Sunfyre. Very well." Exclaimed the King with a smile, clearly pleased and reassured.

When his brother was not next to him he felt in control of the situation again.

She stroked the muzzle of her dragon, for some reason also smiling, its scales under her skin hard and rough.

"We are at your service, my King." She replied, wanting to be sure they would leave her alone.

She just wanted to be close to her dragon, nothing more.

"Good. You and my brother will take turns patrolling the sky daily. This will relieve the burden on Vhagar and allow the prince to attend to other, equally important matters." He said, and she nodded.

"Present our subjects with our new dragon. Show them that we are stronger than ever." He commanded, and she held back the smile of amusement that pressed across her face.

Is that so?

Outside? Maybe.

But inside, they were one rotten fruit.

"My King."

Flying over King's Landing was a kind of liberation for her – she felt she was showing not only the world what she had become, but more importantly her father.

She hoped, feeling the wind in her hair, whirling on the Sheepstealer in the skies with laughter, that Daemon was throwing his cups in Dragonstone out of rage, cursing the day she was born.

Although she hated her heritage and her name, it was the dragon that saved her and gave her life meaning.

It felt like they understood each other without words, that one move of hers was enough to make him change his flight course to where she wanted or dive down.

Once they landed, she always spent a bit of time with him, lying on the grass beside him, stroking his muzzle – she wanted him to know that he wasn't just her tool that she used.

No.

She felt something completely different that filled her heart wonderfully.

Love.

Looking out of the corner of her eye at Vhagar lying in the distance, plunged into a deep sleep, completely ignoring them, she wondered if these were the feelings that Prince Aemond had for his dragoness.

You should fall to your knees before her, you fucking whore, not laugh.

This was not an expression of his pride then.

It was an expression of his deep affection for her.

She smiled at this thought, recognising that at last she understood him.

Her expression was gentle and contented when, walking down the corridor of the Red Keep with a guard who did not leave her side, she came across him, apparently heading for Vhagar's liege.

"Where have you been?" He asked disturbed, seeing her riding attire.

She sighed quietly, pulling her black leather gloves from her hands.

"The King ordered that we take turns patrolling the skies. I have done that duty today. You may rest." She said, and he swallowed hard, something expression in his face as if he felt discomfort.

Another thing he was taking away from him, she thought.

"Leave us." He directed his cold words to the guard. He nodded and walked away with the quiet clang of his steel armour.

The prince moved away towards the cloisters, and she moved with him.

He didn't want anyone to hear their conversation.

"What did you say to him?" He asked, looking sideways, as if he couldn't bear to see her.

"To whom?"

"To my brother. Did you betray me?" He asked coldly, throwing her a drawn-out, stern look.

She sighed heavily and shook her head, closing her eyes, tired after the physical exertion, not having the strength for his baseless accusations.

"How?" She asked, his jaw clenched, his body upright and tense.

"Don't play a fucking fool. You know perfectly well what I'm referring to."

She laughed at his words, shrugging her shoulders, bringing him to the brink of fury.

She could see it in his wide-open eye, in his feral, furious gaze.

"I know, but I haven't told him anything and I won't. It's not in my nature to complicate a situation where I'm comfortable. Being your enemy is not my desire. The lack of your unity drastically reduces my chances of survival, and having tamed the dragon, its value in my eyes has increased greatly." She said lightly, looking him straight in the eye, seeing that his hands entwined behind his back were clenched into fists.

He hated it when she spoke to him like that, but he couldn't do anything to her in public.

"I also wish for you to continue to teach me the language of Old Valyria. In return, I will report to you on what I am asked and what the King tells me to soothe your troubled soul." She hummed with a smile, watching with satisfaction as he drew in a loud breath and licked his lower lip, apparently trying not to use his hands on her long neck.

"Do we have an agreement, my Prince?" She asked, cocking her head.

He sighed, glancing sideways, and shook his head, clearly not believing that he had consented to such humiliation.

"In the library. Every day, right after supper."

She learned of Lady Floris Baratheon's arrival in the Red Keep from her maid – braiding some of her hair at the back of her head, she told her of what she had seen.

"Lady Floris arrived in a brown gown embroidered with gold thread. Her hair is black and long, pinned up in a braid, smoothed down in front, her forehead high, her gaze proud and solemn. Her smile, in my opinion, has no lightness or conviction." Said Lysa, and she giggled under her breath, looking at her and herself in the reflection of the mirror.

"What a harsh judgement. Perhaps it was that smile that the prince found so charming that he chose her." She replied lightly, thinking with amusement that her cousin was surely writhing in agony right now, entertaining his betrothed.

Good, she thought.

Let him suffer.

"Perhaps, however, the memory of that day must spend his sleep." Said Lysa, gracefully weaving one of her strands in with the rest of her hairstyle.

She blinked, intrigued.

"What do you mean?"

Lysa looked at her surprised, as if snapped out of her reverie.

"Don't you know, my Lady? It was on this day that Prince Aemond killed Prince Lucerys. That poor boy. His mother searched for his remains in madness and despair, but apparently there was nothing left of him but his cloak. He was devoured by Vhagar." She explained, and she swallowed hard, feeling a cold sweat run down her back.

He says that Luke's death was an accident, but I don't know if I believe him.

I don't recognise him anymore and I warn you that he's unpredictable.

She was sure she would eat her supper as usual in solitude, but it turned out that the King had held a small banquet and she was to attend.

Aegon wanted to show off her dragon and what she had done, while humiliating his brother and his betrothed, she thought wryly, walking there reluctantly.

When the door opened in front of her, she saw a long table, on either side of which sat the royal family and their loyal lords with their relatives.

She did not know where she should sit or what to do, the King, however, decided to take pity on her.

"Ah, here is my dear, fearless cousin. Come here, my Lady, I have assigned you a seat next to my brother. Perhaps your presence will lift his spirits." He called out, and she swallowed hard, lowering her gaze, knowing that she couldn't react to this, that she just had to survive it.

She sat down in the only empty seat, between her cousin and the king's wife, Helaena – she was pale and sad, staring off into the distance somewhere with empty eyes.

She still had not come to terms with the death of her son.

However, as she sank into her grief and sorrow, the King, on the contrary, was bubbling over with a desire for revenge, ready for action.

When she glanced sideways, all she saw was his hand clenched into a fist, his familiar scent reached her nostrils – she swallowed quietly, twisting in her seat, feeling a pleasant pulsing between her thighs, for some reason remembering how pleasant the touch of his fingers was there, sinking into her damp folds.

She reached for her wine cup and took a loud sip from it, not bothering to look to the side, her gaze fixed on the Queen Alicent who sat opposite her.

"My Lady." She heard an unfamiliar female voice directed in her side and she let out a quiet breath, taking another sip from her goblet, hearing her cousin twist restlessly in his chair.

She looked at Floris Baratheon and forced herself to give her the kindest, warmest smile she could afford. Floris was also smiling; had it not been for her gaze, she might have found her expression even sympathetic.

However, her eyebrows arched in some sort of compassion, a sign that she wanted to show her false understanding.

"I congratulate you on taming a dragon. No one expected you to succeed." She said softly, shaking her head as if filled with sincere admiration.

The corner of her mouth twitched, but she managed not to laugh.

"I didn't believe it myself, my Lady. I was convinced that I would burn and become dust." She replied lightly, not taking her eyes off her.

Several people at the table chuckled at her words as Floris watched her for a moment, playing with the small gold ring on her heart finger.

"The gods have spared you. Will you stand to fight your father?" She asked, as if giving her a challenge of sorts.

"Enough." She heard her cousin's impatient voice between them directed at his betrothed.

She, however, found that she was happy to answer her.

"My dragon lacks experience and composure. I will be a mere support for the King and the Prince." She replied, and Floris leaned back, intrigued.

"Support indeed needed." Aegon added, popping a grape into his mouth, biting through it with a loud crunch. "On which we all agree. Now, music!"

For the rest of the feast, she pretended to be very focused on her piece of roast, which she ate slowly, knowing that she couldn't flee immediately if she didn't want to offend the King – she didn't hold him in special esteem but she knew that he held her in some sort of affection, and after what he had accused her of after his son's death, she feared that one wrong move on her part would be enough for her to fall back into his disfavour.

True, the responsible parties had been found and the King himself had brought them justice, however, she could not let him begin to think again that she had helped her father let them into the keep.

He had to be sure that she was faithful to him.

They both had to be sure of it.

Him and his brother.

She swallowed hard, pulled out of her reverie, feeling a shudder when her cousin's knee pressed against hers. She was sure he simply wanted to change position, he, however, spread himself out comfortably, leaving his leg where it was.

Should she move away?

Do nothing?

What was that supposed to mean?

She glanced sideways at his hand out of the corner of her eye – she could see that his fingers were tapping the tabletop in some nervous, impatient gesture.

Their lessons.

Was he trying to tell her to leave and go to the library before he did, so as not to frustrate his betrothed?

She wanted to ask him that, but couldn't, so she decided she would do what she thought appropriate and simply stood up, nodding her head at the King.

"Your Grace. I will retire now, if you will allow me." She said softly, and Aegon nodded.

"I allow it." He replied, his voice through the amount of wine he had managed to drink like a babble.

Gods help me, she thought as she bowed to him and the Queen Dowager, without bestowing even a single glance on the prince or his betrothed.

She waited in her chamber for half an hour, changing in the meantime into the more comfortable, casual silk robe the Queen had given her, throwing it over her nightgown, tying it around her waist.

When she finally stepped outside her guard furrowed his brow and shook his head.

"Prince Aemond wanted to meet me in the library. Take me there." She said – the man hesitated and sighed heavily, indicating with his hand for her to go ahead.

Her cousin was already waiting for her – he gave her one protracted glance from over his open books, his eye open wide as if he was surprised by her appearance, candles all around him.

He nodded at her to sit beside him in the chair, and she did so, leaving her guard outside the door.

He moved one of the books towards her and opened it to a page he apparently wanted to discuss with her.

"We'll start with the basics. The most important and simplest terms." He said matter-of-factly, sliding another book towards her and leaned in, his clearly defined cheekbone close, too close, pointing his finger at one of the words.

"Jelmor." He hummed. "North."

"Jelmor." She whispered, feeling the tension in all the muscles of her body.

"Ñāqon. East."

"Nāqon."

"No. Roll your tongue at the n." He said, looking at her out of the corner of his eye, something in his gaze from which her heart struck harder.

It seemed to her that his iris was black.

There was something obscenely intimate in his bent figure, in his slightly parted lips, in his proximity, the place between her thighs all swollen, increasingly moist and warm.

"Ñāqon." She whispered.

"Better." He hummed, his gaze never leaving her face even though his finger moved on to the next words, as if he knew this book by heart. "Vēzor. South."

"Vēzor."

"Endia. West."

"Endia."

"Muña. Mother." He said, something flashed dangerously in his gaze, as if he knew exactly what her reaction would be and he was not wrong.

She froze, clasping her hands on her thighs, feeling her heart begin to pound like mad, the tightness in her throat indicating that she felt pain.

"Muña."

"Mmm. Kepa. Father."

She swallowed hard, looking at him with eyes glazed from tears, feeling her body begin to twitch. His lips parted slightly, as if what he was doing to her, the fact that she was vulnerable aroused him.

"Repeat." He whispered.

"Kepa." She said, feeling a single, heavy tear run down her cheek.

Kepa.

She shuddered, looking up at him in horror as his hand rose to her cheek, his thumb lazily rubbing the wet mark from her face.

"Trēsy. Son." He continued, his voice like the sound of water, calm and quiet.

Tender, as if he were moved.

Why?

She sighed as his hand traveled lower, his index finger running over her jaw.

"Tresy."

"No." He said. "Trēsy. The letter 'ē' needs to be read deeper, as if you want to sing."

"Trēsy."

"Tala. Daugther."

She shook her head, pressing her lips together, feeling that she couldn't do it, the feeling as if he was driving needle after needle into her heart made it difficult for her to get anything out.

She sighed, closing her eyes as he leaned lower, in some natural reflex pressing his forehead against hers, his hand sinking into the skin of her neck, his warm, excited breath enveloping her face.

She involuntarily clenched her thighs together, feeling the wonderful, familiar pulsing and tickling between them.

"Tala."

"Hāedar." He exhaled, something in his voice from which she felt her nipples harden, peeking through from under the fabric of her robe. "Little sister."

She opened her eyes, feeling a shiver run down her spine.

And that was a mistake.

He was looking straight into her face.

She sighed when she felt his other hand on her knee, moving slowly up to her thigh.

"Hāedar." She exhaled, feeling her cunt begin to leak with desire against her will.

"Lēkia." He said, as if he had done something definitive, a quiet moan breaking from her throat as his hand closed over her womanhood. "Older brother."

"Lēkia." She moaned and whimpered as his lips pressed against hers in an aggressive, loud, sticky kiss full of their saliva and panting, her palm touching his scarred cheek, drawing a low murmur of delight from his throat.

She touched him.

She sighed as she let her hand sink into his smooth white hair, for some reason seeking comfort in him, an escape from the cold, bleak loneliness and emptiness that filled her heart.

They sank again and again into each other's soft, fleshy skin, his tongue bursting between her teeth as his hand lifted the fabric of her robe, the other clenched in her curls.

She would have cried out in shocking delight had it not been for the fact that his lips muffled all the sound she made of herself as the tips of his fingers dug into the silken folds of her womanhood, dripping and throbbing with lust.

He groaned into her throat when he felt how unashamedly wet she was for him, and she gasped when his free hand slipped from her hair to her wrist, grasping it, drawing her to his body, pressing it against the bulge in his breeches.

He murmured and licked her encouragingly as her fingers tentatively ran over the outline of his swollen manhood, hidden beneath the leather material, hard, long and twitching.

He let go of her hand, embracing her around the waist and pulling her closer as he made sure she was going to give him what he wanted, their sighs of desire melting between their plump lips as his fingers pushed against her hot slit.

She spread her legs wider, wanting to feel it, wanting him to do it to her, but they both jumped away from each other as if burned when they heard the creak of the door opening.

Her cousin wiped his hand, sticky with her moisture in his breeches, looking at his betrothed's figure, pale, and she lowered back the material of her robe, staring blankly at the books open before her.

Was she able to see by their faces, by their quickened breaths what had happened?

She felt shame at the thought that she shouldn't have done this.

She was his betrothed.

She was the one he should be touching like this.

She was the one he should spend the evening with, learning about her body.

"The guards told me I would find you here, my Prince. I did not know you would have company." She said calmly, however, disappointment and understandable annoyance could be heard in her tone of voice.

She swallowed hard, feeling that the material beneath her buttocks was wet with her moisture, her swollen walls pulsing greedily around nothing, begging to feel his fingers again, her nipples hard and sore, clearly outlined beneath her robe.

"I am teaching my cousin the language of Old Valyria. It is the only way she can communicate with her dragon." He said, feigning composure, looking ahead but not at her even though she stopped right beside him.

She touched one of the books and flipped a page, remaining silent for a moment.

"May I join you? I would also like to learn the language of your ancestors, my love." She said, her hand on his shoulder.

She looked at him and saw that he had closed his eye, as if he felt discomfort the moment Lady Floris touched him.

He swallowed loudly and opened his eyelid, his gaze helpless and childlike, filled with pain.

"I will not be able to concentrate with you standing by my side, my Lady." He whispered, his voice weak, as if he had run out of strength.

Floris's hand slid from his shoulder to his forearm, his figure tense, his lips clamped into a tight line.

He didn't look at her.

"Does my presence disturb you, my love?" Floris asked, and she twisted in her seat, deciding that this conversation was too private.

These were their problems, their betrothal, their worries.

Why was she allowing herself to be dragged into this?

"I'll leave you alone. With your permission." She said quickly, wanting to get up, his gaze shifting to her, sharp and angry.

"Daor, hāedar."

She froze in mid-motion with her hands on the table, looking at him in disbelief, feeling her walls clench around nothing at his words.

No, little sister.

Little sister.

She swallowed hard feeling her lips part involuntarily, her eyebrows arching in helplessness, the heat that spread across her chest strangely pleasant and reassuring.

Floris looked at him then at her and shook her head.

"What did you say, my love?"

"I don't allow it. We are not finished yet. Soon her dragon will move to fight at my side and she must be ready. I ask that you never interrupt us again. If you wish, we will take a walk around the royal gardens tomorrow, just as you desire." He said emotionlessly, as if trying to calm a whimpering child.

Floris swallowed hard and looked at her in a way from which she felt discomfort in her stomach, a sense of humiliation, frustration and irritation in her gaze.

"Is it because she is your cousin? Like any Targaryen you prefer your own kin?" She asked quietly, both of them bouncing when his fists slammed into the table, and he sprang from his seat, towering over his betrothed as if he wanted to tear her apart.

She too stood up, grabbing his arm in some helpless, na��ve gesture.

"Lēkia." She said pleadingly.

Floris's lips clenched looking at the fact that she dared to touch him, that her prince looked at her and not his betrothed, that it was her opinion that counted, her word that could stop him.

And then Floris' gaze fled lower, to his breeches, and she froze, pale, seeing exactly her answer to all her concerns.

Her hand let go of him when his nostrils stopped twitching with rage, when his jaw relaxed into an expression a little softer, though still frustrated.

He finally looked at his betrothed and licked his lower lip, as if trying to control himself.

"I will consider that you never said it, my Lady. Otherwise I would have to recognise that you intended to insult me and my family. And that would mean, in turn, that my betrothed is a fool. Is that how it is, my Lady?" He gasped in a voice filled with mockery, from which she swallowed hard, lowering her gaze.

Floris Baratheon looked at him with eyes full of tears, and then her gaze turned to her, her lips quivering with rage and grief.

"No, my Prince. I am not." She said, turned and walked away, leaving them alone.

She was unable to look at him – the silence in the chamber, his taut silhouette standing beside her made her feel like her wetness was dripping from between her thighs straight onto the stone floor beneath her feet.

"You may leave." He said finally.

She nodded and moved towards the door on soft legs, walking out into the corridor, thinking that they had both accomplished some amazing feat by not simply fucking each other on that table.

She sighed loudly, running her hand over her face, thinking that maybe she wasn't such a bad person.

She figured that during their next lessons she wouldn't sit so close to him, that she wouldn't look at him or tempt him.

That she wouldn't let him touch her anymore.

She blinked, looking around, only noticing after a moment that there was no guard who should be watching her.

She turned when she heard the rustling of a gown behind her, something long and hard hit her head with all its force, and she fell to the floor with a thud.

It seemed a moment before she lost consciousness that she heard the breathy voice of her cousin's betrothed above her, only a quiet hiss left her lips.

"Whore."

[allyjoe755]

Family Ties Pt. 1

Benedict Bridgerton x reader (no use of y/n)

request: from @caspianobsessed, "Can u please write about benedict and sharma sister reader , she comes to visit kate and meets ben for the first time. They meet one year later during reader's season and fall in love"

WC: 1541

a/n: This was so much fun to write. I have no idea what 19th century ghost possessed me to write the dialogue like I did but I'm not mad at it. There will be a part two! I hope you enjoy. And if you would like to be tagged in any future parts, please let me know.

warnings: none

o-o-o

Love was a challenging concept, because hearts— they were fickle things.

You had realized as much after your sister, Edwina’s, first social season… where she had been courted by Viscount Bridgerton only for your eldest sister, Kate, to ultimately become his wife.

But oh, were they in love. You could see it in their eyes on their wedding day— how they stared deeply at one another, as if no one else mattered in the world, as if their entire world, indeed, was standing right in front of them.

It was beautiful. Magnificent, truly.

You could only wish that something as magical as that might befall you one day.

You were a year younger than Edwina, and as such, a year out from your societal debut. You had not been present during the social gatherings or your sisters’ time spent at Aubrey Hall– due, in part, to you traveling with some extended family or other during that time. Besides names and vague descriptions granted to you through writing and on your return, you truly did not know any of the family your sister was marrying into.

And even then, you barely met any of them on the wedding day. A quick conversation introducing you to the now Dowager Viscountess Bridgerton, and a nodding of heads acknowledging a few of the girls– Francesca and Eloise?– but that was it.

Viscount Bridgerton you knew, of course, but any of the others? Perhaps on looks alone you could pick out the eight of them from a crowd, but you did not know who was who.

Maybe that was why your heart thrummed so violently in your chest as you exited the carriage and stood in front of Aubrey Hall. The unknown. Yes, you were visiting your sister, but you feared less a chance encounter with a pack of ravenous wolves than the family Bridgerton, for at least you knew what to expect with the former.

You were sure they were kind– or at least amiable, as you doubted your sister would tolerate much less join a family that was not at least one of those things. That one piece of hope allowed you to tamper your nerves enough that when you arrived at Aubrey Hall, you were able to wear a placid smile as the footman escorted you to the drawing room.

He had not even finished announcing your name when your sister stood from where she was and practically dashed over to you, enveloping you in a hug. You both laughed, and tears came to your eyes.

“My dear, sweet sister,” Kate said, her smile bright as your embrace ended. “How I have missed you.”

“I have missed you as well!” You exclaimed. “Viscountess Bridgerton.”

“Oh, none of that here.” She waved her hand dismissively. “Come. I should introduce you to everyone.”

She turned around and you now had a clearer image of the drawing room– or rather, who was in it. The Dowager Viscountess– you recognized her– stood and nodded her head to you. You nodded and curtsied in return.

One girl sat in a chair with a book in hand. She was one of the children you had met at the wedding… Eloise, you believed? Yet the others you were not sure you entirely recognized.

“At the piano is Francesca,” Kate began. “Please, do not stop playing on our account; my sister and I are both lovers of music,” she told the young woman. “Over there is Eloise, and of course you know the Dowager Viscountess… Anthony is away on some business at the moment, but should be joining us for our meal. And, of course, the duchess is not present, as she is in Hastings.

“And here,” she said, bringing you to a table toward the end of the room, “are Gregory, Benedict, Colin, and–”

“Hyacinth!” The young girl announced, standing to do a quick curtsy to you. “It is a delight to meet you; we’ve heard so many great things!”

You couldn’t help the smile that began to blossom on your face. What had you been worried for? Only a few minutes, and you could already tell they were a wonderful family. “I’m so very glad to hear it,” you returned. You looked down at the table. “What game are you all playing?”

“It is a very simple game,” Hyacinth grandly explained, “in which one seeks the highest scoring hand by trading their cards until the round is over."

You smiled. "Trade and Barter?"

"Colin says it is called Commerce in France," Hyacinth responded, "which I think is a far more clever name." She looked up at you, and you thought that if this was how all of the family was, you would like the Bridgertons very much indeed. 

"Would you care to join us?" Colin offered.

"If there is room for one more," you said.

"Of course there is room," he replied, and there was a momentary shuffling of chairs, a command for Gregory to grab another seat, and suddenly you were sat between the youngest at the table and the oldest as your sister went back to sit with her mother-in-law.

Assuming, of course, that Benedict was in fact the second oldest and Hyacinth the youngest, if their names and your common sense had anything to tell you.

Another thing your common sense told you: the Bridgertons were a beautiful family. You read Lady Whistledown, of course, and had heard of the Bridgerton good looks, but seeing them in person…

You were being ridiculous, you knew. This was your sister’s family– Kate’s family. You should not have been noticing anything besides their friendliness.

You definitely should not have been noticing how you thought Benedict the most handsome, with his chestnut hair and gleaming eyes and soft smile, or how butterflies flapped in your stomach when your seat was placed next to his, or how nice he smelled when you sat down.

It was Gregory's turn to deal. Once your cards were dealt, you picked them up, glanced at them, and held them close to your chest.

Benedict leaned toward you ever so slightly. “Be sure to keep a neutral look about you. The younger ones do have eyes like hawks about these things.”

You let out a laugh. “You must remember my sisters,” you replied. “Edwina and Kate and I have had a fair share of card games ourselves.”

And so it went like that, around the table taking turns, watching the other players in hopes that their faces would reveal their hands, with laughter echoing in the drawing room.

“How is it that we haven't met you before today?” Hyacinth asked as she scooped over the pool of coins to her personal stash.

“I was traveling with family,” you explained. “Although I was at the wedding; it was just a busy day and so we did not get to meet.

“Where did you travel to?” and “So you are not out in society yet?” were the next questions asked, by, to your surprise, Colin and Benedict respectively. They then both apologized in tandem, and you pressed your lips together to stifle a giggle.

“No, I am not out in society yet–” you answered Benedict first– “but my debut will be this next season. And we were just in the countryside, mostly, but I did think it a rather splendid trip. There were many libraries and parks where we stayed, which I thoroughly enjoyed.”

“You enjoy reading?” Benedict asked yet another question, and you would be lying if you didn’t say that you were giddy by it.

“I would say that I rather enjoy all the arts,” you said. “Reading, writing, music… I can play the pianoforte, but not nearly as well as your sister. Her mastery is a true gift.”

“And what about visual arts?” Colin asked. “Drawings and paintings and sculptures… are you a fan of those as well?”

You nodded. “Of course. I was told there were great art exhibits in London. My mother and I are planning on visiting some of them when we are there for my season.”

“Perhaps Benedict could join you!” Hyacinth exclaimed. “He is a lover of art. In fact, he is quite the artist himself. He was a student at the Royal Academy of Art.”

Benedict let out a rather awkward laugh, and you felt your face grow flush. Hyacinth did not know what she was proposing– but a debutante and a bachelor on an outing, during the social season?

It was preposterous, and suggestive, and almost romantic.

Yet you loved the idea of it.

“A student?” You said, hoping to ignore Hyacinth’s other comment and continue with the conversation. “You must have very nice work.”

“I wouldn’t say that,” he quickly responded, and then cleared his throat. His eyes met yours for a fleeting moment before you both looked away.

“It might be time for our meal soon,” Colin announced, standing up from his seat and saving you and his brother from any more embarrassment. “Hyacinth?”

“Yes, brother?”

“We shall leave it up to Benedict and our guest to determine what they would like to do during the social season.” He began towards the door, opened it, and turned to address the rest of the group. “Shall we?”

[ash-rigby]

Verdant Transmigration (Spring/Fertility God) [M/M]

Featured Characters: Male human and a male nature god.

Description: Marion, a cleric of one of his town's four resident nature deities, undergoes a ritual to become the next Vessel for Ta'lir who, among many things, is a god of fertility. A merging with Ta'lir requires a more physical element than a purely spiritual one.

Contains: Masked Nonhuman, Size Difference, Aphrodisiacs, Sex Magic, Fellatio, Hand Jobs, Self Lubrication, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Excessive Cum, Mild Cardiophilia.

Completion Date: March 23rd, 2024

Word Count: 3485

This isn't the next requested piece but it was the one I was getting ready to submit to this year's Spring issue of M❤️NSTER. I wound up not making the deadline but I like it too much to wait a year to share it, so I finished it up and here it is!

-

Marion walked into the ritual chamber under the gazes of many, his nude body catching the flickering firelight. He knelt on the floor of the temple as one of the other priests began to lay out a circle in sacred earth around him. He closed his eyes and breathed deeply, drawing in the spicy yet floral smell of the incense. Drums beat softly on all sides and the sound of low flutes seemed to tickle the nape of his neck. 

He wasn’t nervous, as those around him expected him to be; he had spent the last three days since the previous Vessel’s death in deep meditation to prepare for being the next. Adola was a magnificent woman, a constant through all of Marion’s twenty-five years. A solemn presence with a gentle, motherly hand. Her grace had inspired him to devote his life to the god she carried within her—whom he would carry in her stead.

His city enjoyed the watchful eye of four nature gods, corresponding to the seasons and each with their unique divine favors to bestow. Some blessings and miracles, others that brought simple comforts through the unavoidable trials and pains of life. Whatever their will, it was channeled through a human host; a Vessel that embodied all they were and served the people. But a mortal body is a mortal body, releasing both spirits in death. 

With Adola’s passing, Ta’lir—a god of Spring—had returned to the Ethereal Grove where he fell into dormancy, awaiting rebirth into the mortal realm. The Transmigration ritual for each god involved a performance to inspire a merging of their spirit and that of the willing Vessel. There was the exuberant dance for Summer, a melancholy yet ultimately hopeful song for Autumn, and a grueling test of endurance through cold for Winter.

Ta’lir, among other things, represented fertility. Pleasures of the flesh were a common mode of worshipping him. As a priest of Ta’lir’s temple, Marion had partaken many times; alone, with one or two other clerics, and in the grand orgies. He was more than prepared for what was required of him in the ritual ahead. A spiritual and physical union with Ta’lir.

Marion felt a presence step in front of him. There was a rustle of fabric and the sound of bare feet padding against stone. He opened his eyes to see the High Priestess smiling warmly down at him, her face framed by long, brown hair. She held an ornate cup carved from wood in her hand which she leaned down to hand to him.

“Euphoric passage to the Grove,” she said in blessing as Marion took the cup.

He brought it to his lips, familiar with its contents. The cooled, maroon-coloured tea was brewed from a dried mix containing amiculus clover petals; a powerful aphrodisiac despite its mild, unremarkable flavour. Its influence on the body was enough to carry over even in the spirit through astral projection. Euphoric indeed.

Marion gave the empty cup back to the High Priestess. Another cleric, short in stature, took it from her and replaced it with a shallow bowl of dark paint. She knelt and began to mark him with the shapes and lines that would be branded into his skin once he merged with Ta’lir, denoting him as his Vessel. 

The tea quickly took effect. Heat swirled in Marion’s stomach before migrating lower as a pleasantly tingling pulse. His cock throbbed, gradually filling without a single touch until it stood erect. Need washed over him but he would not be stroking himself or seeking partners in the crowd around him. For once, that wasn’t a part of things; his body and ecstasy were promised solely to Ta’lir that day.

Marion breathed, his cock full and heavy. The High Priestess’ touch was warm and soft, her captivating bluish-grey eyes frequently holding his as she worked. He shivered at the memories of times he had the honor of worshipping with her. A hitched gasp left him, hips jolting slightly, as she finished the final line—a single, agonizingly slow stroke up the underside of his shaft.

She left him panting in the center of the circle, stepping back to join the other clerics who began to chant. The sacred earth gradually gained a bright green glow. Fractal patterns drew themselves into existence and spread inwards from it. As they reached Marion, the lines painted on him erupted with the same light. He was struck by the extraordinary pleasure of it.

His entire body felt alight and sensitive. Nobody was touching him, but the very air seemed to caress and tease. The chanting grew louder, the glow around him flaring as the ripples of invisible sensation intensified. It was like a fire; wild, blazing, hungry. Nipping, licking and leaving trails of desperation across every inch of him.

He fell back and only just managed to catch and hold himself up on his shaking arms, legs spreading open of their own accord. The flutes faded out but the drums beat harder, the sound of them pounding through him. Somehow in perfect time with every throb of his leaking cock. 

Marion tilted his head back, face angled at the ceiling bathed in that green light. Splayed out like this—wantonly moaning and achingly erect—he couldn’t help but feel like a beast crying out for another of its kind to mate. With that thought, the words came to him, spilling from his lips as if someone else had seized his voice.

“Take me, Ta’lir,” he implored to his dormant god. “Oh, Lord of my flesh. My erotic master. Take me!”

His vision became an all-consuming white. Images flooded his mind but did not linger on a single one for long. Wet, dripping holes swallowing his shaft. Slick cocks rubbing against his own. Tangles of hot, sweaty bodies thrusting and grinding. Groping hands. Eager mouths. On top of the drums and chanting came a rising, desperate cacophony of disembodied moans.

Just as Marion felt it all coming to a head, like he might just cum, a hand was placed on the center of his chest. It gave a hefty push and everything stopped. 

The surging, full-body pleasure was whisked away in a second. Though his cock still strained and he could feel the effects of the tea coursing through him. Silence settled around him like a fog, broken only by his heaving breaths. 

Marion was outside; he could feel a cool breeze on his naked form. There was birdsong and the whisper of leaves. The smell of earth, flowers, and petrichor filled his senses. He only realized then that the white light was gone, leaving darkness. His eyes were closed. Feeling slightly foolish, he opened them and awe took his breath.

The Grove was laid out in all its glory before him.

He was kneeling on a stone circle, carved with the same patterns that had sprung up in light back in the temple. Four tall, mossy pillars rose around him, made into the shape of rabbits standing on their hind legs, noses pointed skyward. Beyond that was a rich, verdant sprawl; long grasses, full bushes, and a dense wood that ringed the clearing he was in.

Directly ahead was a short staircase which led to a colossal tree. Marion gazed at its thick trunk and spotted a carved-out portion in the middle which contained a floating, glowing green mass. Lower still, sitting on a throne that melded into the tree, was the unmoving form of Ta’lir. 

Marion stood, not expecting the strength in his legs given what he had just gone through, and walked towards him. He had seen all of the sculptures, scrolls, and murals depicting Ta’lir’s likeness, but nothing could have prepared him for the radiance of the genuine article. 

Even sitting, the god was tall. Whatever visage he had, if any, was completely obscured by a wooden mask of a hare’s head that bore three eyes. There was a thick, lush mantle of vegetation growing from his shoulders that flared behind his head, speckled through with flowering clover. The torso and arms of the body looked carved from wood, though sleek. Marion could see the intricacies of it. There were joints that would allow Ta’lir to move with the ease of flesh and bone. 

The chest was a hollow like the one he had seen in the tree, though the hole was grated over with thin, uneven, wooden lines that intersected and split here and there. The result was a myriad of varying-sized, ovular holes. There were no innards to speak of; sunlight peaked through them to show the solid plane of the other side.

The wood of the upper half faded into the more flesh-like appearance of the lower, though green and mossy. Marion swallowed when his eyes travelled there and he laid eyes on it. Though dormant, Ta’lir was sporting a large, impressive erection. His thick shaft, with its enticing slight upward curve, stood proudly. Waiting. Propelled by piety and arousal that had far from relented, Marion wasted no time in kneeling between his god’s legs.

His hands lighted on Ta’lir’s thighs. The cock before him was almost intimidating, but reverence won out. He mouthed at the hanging, virile balls before working his way upwards. The taste was an ambrosia on his watering, roaming tongue. He licked the sensitive underside of the head, bringing his hand up to the shaft as he did. The sheer girth of it showed itself as his fingers couldn’t close around it.

Marion closed his lips over the round tip, stroking all he could. As he did, he felt a sudden throb against his palm. It came with a sound; a deep, heavy heartbeat sounding above him. He looked up to see the mass in the tree beginning to pulse just as a bright green glow came to the eyes of Ta’lir’s mask.

The large body drew in a breath—into what lungs, Marion didn’t know—and released it with a low, appreciative groan. Ta’lir shifted, his head rolling on his shoulders before tilting down. Marion’s heart pounded as their eyes met, but he didn’t dare stop; he couldn’t bear the thought of taking his mouth or hands off Ta’lir. 

A chuckle, cavernous and gratified, resounded in his mind rather than outward.

“Hello, dear one,” Ta’lir said, his voice thrumming through Marion’s entire being. It was reminiscent of the feeling he experienced during the ritual, though far less sourceless. “And have my thanks for—mmhn—for restoring me.”

Marion responded by taking Ta’lir further into his mouth, bobbing his head and pumping his hand over hot, turgid flesh. The god moaned and it went straight to Marion’s dick, spurring such an intense throb that his eyes briefly rolled. He could cum like this. Just from sucking Ta’lir’s cock. Just from the divine presence of his voice. He upped his pace, yearning to please and dizzy from the pleasure of every noise his efforts worked out.

“I know you,” Ta’lir said. “This eagerness…this lust. Oh, sweet Marion.”

With a wet sound, Marion pulled off of Ta’lir, his hand never stilling as his chest warmed in admiration.

“My reputation precedes me, Lord?” he asked breathlessly, eyelids flickering from the simple action of Ta’lir brushing a tender finger behind his ear—what it was going to feel like getting fucked by this being in this state was beyond his comprehension.

“Come here,” Ta’lir said, tapping his thigh. “Let me see you.”

Marion obeyed, climbing up into his god’s lap and straddling him. His cock raged, weeping onto Ta’lir; a simple but effective tribute. He was panting, well aware of his hole’s proximity to what every part of his insides ached for. Three glowing eyes gazed upon him. Though no emotion could be discerned from them, he could sense the radiating fondness. 

“Such a handsome figure,” Ta’lir marveled, fingertips lightly trailing over his Vessel’s sides. The smile in his tone was felt. “And this…”

His hand went to Marion’s dick, taking it between his massive forefinger and thumb. He began to stroke. Slow pass up. Pause. Slow pass down. The pattern repeated as he remained fixated on Marion’s face, drinking in his moans.

“My previous Vessel was a woman without this,” Ta’lir said. “I did love the change of pace, but I’d be lying if I said I didn’t miss burying myself.”

Marion gasped; unable to speak, shaking from his god’s touch and the waves of his voice.

“You must get a lot of attention,” Ta’lir continued, stroking a little faster. “Such a big, gorgeous cock. This heat…and you throb so strongly. I can’t wait for it to be mine. Oh…we’ll do great things together.”

Marion felt his other hand reach to caress the small of his back, gliding down over the mounds of his ass. A long, dexterous finger breached him with surprising ease; was it his imagination or was he wet? His spirit’s burning desire to take Ta’lir into him in more ways than one must have manifested such things. That one, brief coherent thought melted away as he was deeply penetrated, a second finger swiftly joining the first.

They pumped rapidly, striking true against that near-blindingly sensitive spot inside him. His body jolted, back locking into a rigid, trembling arch as his breath halted. He was lightheaded by the time he was able to suck in air again through in quick, whimpering heaves. With a loud wail, he partially collapsed against Ta’lir, his fingers curling onto the inconsistent lattice that was his chest.

“T-Ta-Ta’lir! I can’t, I can’t—ahh!” Marion cried. “I’ll c-cum. I’m going to cum. I’m going to cum! I’m—!”

“Not until I do,” Ta’lir corrected, almost sing-song. “By what other power did you think we become one? I’ve been asleep for days…allow me some amusement.”

Marion’s head swum, time becoming an unknown blur. He wasn’t sure how long he experienced Ta’lir fucking him on his fingers, but every second was exquisite. If one was keen to equate the word to denial, that is; and he was. 

“You’re amazing, Marion,” Ta’lir praised. “Sucking me in so well. If this is how you take my fingers, then—.”

“Please, Lord,” Marion begged, forgetting himself at a mere insinuation. “I…I need it—.” 

“Not yet, my dear,” Ta’lir said, probing faster into the wet, yielding passage. “Not yet.”

True to Ta’lir’s promise, release didn’t come. Marion remained tottering on its edge. He bounced unconsciously, meeting the thrusts of those thick, relentless fingers. His cock felt engorged, hugged by his balls as his body was trapped in those euphoric seconds before orgasm. The roiling pressure, the fever overtaking his shaft, feeling the rivers he was leaking. He had never known such ecstasy; the Grove’s influence was a marvel.

Marion felt no exhaustion when Ta’lir finally removed his fingers. There was only exhilaration and hunger. He shifted his hips, moving until his ass found Ta’lir’s dick. Meeting the glowing eyes once more, he nudged it insistently. His hole was dripping. Twitching. Wanting.

There was that chuckle again. “How rude of me. Please, take a seat.”

“Thank you, Lord…thank you.”

Marion lined himself up and lowered down. His body shouldn’t have been able to take it entirely. Couldn’t have been able to. But it did, opening up as if driven by pure devotion. Every broad inch claimed him slowly until Ta’lir bottomed out. 

“Oh…oh, you’re perfect,” Ta’lir praised. 

The joy of such a connection with his god was overwhelming and Marion nearly cried. He sat there in hopelessly aroused disbelief, stuffed full and feeling every pulse that throbbed alongside that constant heartbeat. It grew faster as he began to grind.

He kept it slow; now that Ta’lir was inside him, he found himself wanting to savour it. Shallow thrusts were achieved as he lifted up slightly and slid back down. Even that pace felt like being stirred up, the sheer size of Ta’lir’s cock stretching him past his usual limits. His sweltering walls caressed and squeezed—mostly of his own doing, but involuntary clenches were inevitable.

“Yes,” Ta’lir breathed, a visible shiver running through his large frame. “Dance for me.”

His hands came up to cup Marion’s undulating torso, settling over his ribs as the thumbs found his nipples. The wide pads rolled and teased. Marion arched into the touch, expelling a breath that was equal parts a moan and a laugh; it tickled for a moment before settling on pleasure.

It wasn’t long before Ta’lir took control again. Effortlessly, he began to lift Marion up and down his cock. He would get him halfway up the shaft before dropping him to the hilt, that mysterious slick leaking out around him. His head tilted back against the throne as he groaned long and deep.

“Take me…take me.”

Marion’s breath hitched at hearing his own words echoed at him. “I’m yours.”

Ta’lir growled, a sound juxtaposed with the serene herbivore his mask depicted. It was more arousing than it had any right to be. He gripped Marion’s hips and began to pound up into him, grunting with each thrust. His cock seemed impossibly harder; thicker, swelling in its confines.

Marion’s mouth was open, stunned silence occasionally broken by moans cracking his voice to a higher register. He swallowed up that monstrous shaft as if he had been made as its sheath. Like he would be hollow without it. But Ta’lir would fill his empty spaces. Until death parted their spirits.

“I’m yours, I’m yours—ahhh, I’m yours!” he chanted.

He felt himself moving. Ta’lir was standing, hands supporting Marion’s ass as his cock stilled firmly inside. He turned them so he could kneel backwards on his throne and press Marion into its back. His thrusting resumed, faster than his previous position had allowed. A quick clap of meeting flesh filled the Grove.

Marion clutched at Ta’lir. The scent of earth and something more akin to a mammalian musk flooded his nose. The latter grew stronger the more Ta’lir thrust, close to overwhelming the rest and laced with intoxicating pheromones. Marion could practically taste it and drool began to gather in his mouth. He moaned, his hole becoming a desperate vice against the burning beast of a shaft plunging into him.

Gone were Ta’lir’s words, replaced by growls and other feral noises of pleasure as he slammed. Those once-gentle hands gripped, digging deeply into the meat of Marion’s ass. His precum was abundant and incessant in its flow, adding to the lewd squelch of every thrust. It had to be running down his balls, making a mess and dripping onto his throne.

The ever-present heartbeat above their writhing forms raced. Marion was vaguely aware of the glow of that pulsing mass reaching for them in vein-like streaks down the tree’s trunk. Their markings ignited and he felt the first tell-tale throbs making their way through his cock, matching the pace of that pulse. He was close. They were close.

“Cum with me,” Ta’lir said, his voice rough. “Cum…with…!”

He suddenly stilled deep inside and warmth surged into Marion a split second before his own orgasm gripped him. He wailed, explosive ecstasy rushing into every extremity as he excessively came. It seemed endless, spurting from him as his hole milked a similar, copious stream from Ta’lir. 

There was a flood; dripping down his sides, flowing into him. Pump after pump. Two voices, loudly moaning, were beginning to be drowned out by the furious thumping of the tree’s pulse.

Marion’s vision whited and—.

He was back in the temple, kneeling in that circle. His abdomen and thighs were covered in splatters of his own cum. It didn’t cease upon his return, pleasure working through him and making his hips buck as his cock continued to burst. His hole twitched uncontrollably; he could still feel the heat of Ta’lir’s seed and the stretch of his girth. The room was silent save for his own unrestrained moans as his divine orgasm was given proper reverence. 

A faintness washed over Marion as the magic tied to the ritual abated. He collapsed and was descended upon by some of the other clerics. They welcomed him back—a greeting for him and their god. He was vaguely aware of being wrapped in multi-coloured, flower-embroidered cloth and carried to the baths. Gentle hands cleaned him with steaming, pleasant-smelling water as he continued to shiver.

Through heavy eyes, he inspected what he could see of himself. The painted marks had permanently bonded to his skin in swirling lines of brilliant emerald green. But otherwise, he felt no different and a distant pang of concern came to him.

Did it work? Had he been enough?

The High Priestess was carding her fingers through his hair when a familiar voice came to him, clear in his mind; murmurs of praise and contagious excitement for a promising future.

End

Masterlist

[anonymocha]

Celestial Body • Voyager x Kaalaa Baunaa

“The cosmos is within us. We are made of star stuff. We are a way for the universe to know itself.” —Carl Sagan

Synopsis — Voyager figured that it’s about time she revealed the true form she hid beneath her uniform to Kaalaa Baunaa, someone very close to her. Understandably, the reveal was quite a shock for the astronomer.

Words — 1.2K words.

CWs — Cosmic horror? I mean if a girl holds the essence of the fabrics of the cosmos in her very form and made me touch it, I would be horrified too.

A/N — This is like an elaborate coffee-induced BRAINSPILL, my bad. Voyager brainrot. May write another fic with this pairing that’s less “fuck it we ball” than this one.

The uniform she held onto for years upon years vanished into thin air, revealing the starry void that is her bare skin, illuminated by the moonlight.

“I told you… It’s nothing like yours,” Voyager chuckled, her voice soft.

And indeed, she spoke true. The only semblance of familiarity in her form was the faint outline of a slender humanoid figure she possessed. Otherwise, she’s a canvas painted with the colors of the cosmos. Kaalaa Baunaa's breath caught in her throat as her gaze trailed the patterns of stardust that danced across Voyager's skin. Cluster of stars, planets, nebulas, galaxies, supernovas, quasars, pulsars, and black holes, all woven together in a mesmerizing, swirling tapestry. Some parts of her body, like her face, arms, and legs, were still veiled by a layer of white. The very thing concealing her true nature from the others.

“Hmm?…” Voyager tilted her head as she approached the astronomer on the couch, giving her a closer look at her form. It’s almost intimidating, truly. Having who may be the essence of the universe itself towering over her in such proximity. Yet, there was no trace of arrogance in Voyager's demeanor, only a gentle curiosity that radiated from her being. It seemed that Kaalaa Baunaa’s reactions were quite a delight to this enigmatic creature. After all, who could blame an astronomer for being completely and utterly awestruck by a beautiful being, beyond her feeble comprehension, baring herself in front of her naked eyes?

To be in the presence of such magnificence was both humbling and exhilarating.

As Voyager drew closer, Kaalaa Baunaa felt a rush of emotions swirling within her like a black hole. She could sense the gravitational pull of Voyager's presence, a force that threatened to pull her into the depths of an unknown abyss.

And that description wouldn’t be too far off.

And in that moment, Voyager took Kaalaa Baunaa's trembling wrist, guiding it to her abdomen. Expecting to feel the warmth of skin, instead, Kaalaa Baunaa was met with a… Truly startling revelation.

“Ah!—” she gasped sharply when the flesh of her hand did not meet the resistance of Voyager’s skin. Instead, she felt her hand sink deeper into the alien’s abdomen. She’s… This… Her hand… It… It felt chillingly, hauntingly cold, and empty. The astronomer retaliated, pulling her hand out of Voyager’s abdomen in a cold sweat. What is this feeling? Horror? Fascination? Dread? Wonder?

“I’m sorry… I… Hah… It was too fast. I wasn’t ready,” the woman panted. Was that actually space, or was it something else? Another realm? A portal? A mirage? No. She couldn’t sense any illusions, or was her intuition failing her? Oh, it’s terrifying. She’s terrifying. She wouldn’t expect her work partner to contain the very universe within her all this time. The implications of what she had just experienced sent shivers down Kaalaa Baunaa's spine. Like an ant meeting a god, yet have no words to describe or comprehend what god is.

Voyager's eyes softened with understanding as she watched the turmoil unfolding within Kaalaa Baunaa's soul. She reached out a hand, her touch gentle, and cupped the astronomer's trembling cheek. It proved to be effective, the woman slowly calmed under Voyager's touch, her racing thoughts gradually subsiding as she focused on the warmth emanating from the alien's hand.

“I'm sorry for startling you…” the usually silent Voyager murmured, her eyes shimmering with a mixture of emotions that the astronomer couldn’t lay her finger on. “But I wanted you to see... to understand.”

“No… It’s alright, truly… I just… I… I’m sorry, again… I hope my reaction didn’t offend you… But what was that?” she leaned into Voyager’s touch, clinging to her hand like a vulnerable tiger cub.

Voyager could only respond by looking up in thought, before closing her eyes and shaking her head with a smile. “It’s okay…” Voyager mumbled, her voice barely a whisper against the backdrop of the silent room. “I understand that it's overwhelming… I don’t think I can describe it myself… But… That was me. As I am.”

Kaalaa Baunaa sighed, taking deep breaths. That wasn’t a satisfying answer at all. But in a way, she understood her place as a mortal, and how hard it would be for Voyager to explain herself to her.

“I don’t think I can ever wrap my head around it. I don’t think I can truly ever understand you, just like how I could never understand the universe itself. But I can do one thing I do best… I can try.” Kaalaa Baunaa looked up at the alien with determination in her eyes, a newfound resolve settling within her. She may never fully grasp the intricacies of Voyager's existence, but she was determined to cherish every secret they shared. This is a chance like no other, she thought. A chance to truly witness, even touch, someone beyond her with her own hands.

As Kaalaa Baunaa gazed into Voyager's eyes, she saw a reflection of her own curiosity and wonder mirrored back at her. That’s everything she needed to see.

With a newfound sense of awe and reverence, Kaalaa Baunaa reached out once more, this time with a steadier hand, and gently touched Voyager's abdomen again. This time, she felt the chill of emptiness and the vastness of space with a sense of reverence rather than fear. Each inch of her skin that passed through the other’s created soft ripples throughout the canvas, as if she were delving into a veil of mist. The stars would gleam against her skin and silver jewelries, casting brilliant colors unto her hand. Truly nothing like anything she has ever since before. Not even in the meditator’s realm.

The initial seconds of coldness were just as piercing as before. But the longer her hand lingered in there, the warmer it was. She couldn’t sense the celestial energies she commonly associated with the stellar. But she could feel something truly other. One that she could only describe as… Voyager herself. A cosmos unique to her. Such a revelation is… Endearing, to say the least.

This is the essence of the Voyager she held dear, a beloved friend and partner who is both beyond her yet incredibly connected to her, the same being who enjoyed playing the violin, the girl who admired animals and their sounds, and the mysterious entity who had captured her heart in ways she couldn't fully comprehend.

She felt… So small compared to this being. And yet, this being is embracing her with her essence, her love, her all.

What an honor. A privilege.

As Kaalaa Baunaa withdrew her hand, a sense of peace washed over her, replacing the initial shock and uncertainty with a newfound sense of acceptance and understanding. She looked at Voyager, her eyes alight with a newfound appreciation towards her.

The uncertainty, questions, bewilderment, and countless indescribable emotions stirred in her heart, but the astronomer smiled tenderly, her cheeks tinted with warmth. Is an answer what she wants? Not really… She doesn’t feel the hunger for explanations or justifications. It’s not something Kaalaa Baunaa wants to put her through. But instead… She wants Voyager to know one thing.

“You’re beautiful, dear, please remember that…” she rose from the couch, lacing their fingers together as she pulled Voyager into a gentle embrace, planting a kiss on the alien’s cheek. Voyager returned the embrace with a softness that belied her cosmic nature, her arms wrapping around the astronomer.

“You truly are… Out of this world. I love you. I truly, truly do love you.”

Despite everything, what matters the most to her, is to let Voyager know that she is loved and adored, no matter the mysteries that belies her.

The alien could only smile, as she always does.

[lesmisscraper]

The House of Rue Plumet, The House with a Secret

Analyis Part 3.

Continued from Part 2. Goinging up on the first floor!

1. 1st Floor

1st floor consisted of two chambers and a boudoir, which were for sleeping. Same as the parts before, its references are from <Il cuore di Cosette>.

2. Cosette's Rooms

Cosette and the servant occupied the pavilion; she had the big sleeping-room with the painted pier-glasses, the boudoir with the gilded fillets, the justice's drawing-room furnished with tapestries and vast arm-chairs; she had the garden. Jean Valjean had a canopied bed of antique damask in three colors and a beautiful Persian rug purchased in the Rue du Figuier-Saint-Paul at Mother Gaucher's, put into Cosette's chamber, and, in order to redeem the severity of these magnificent old things, he had amalgamated with this bric-a-brac all the gay and graceful little pieces of furniture suitable to young girls, an etagere, a bookcase filled with gilt-edged books, an inkstand, a blotting-book, paper, a work-table incrusted with mother of pearl, a silver-gilt dressing-case, a toilet service in Japanese porcelain.

Well. It's the room that had the most descriptions in the Rue Plumet of course, how Cosette was pampered by Valjean. And, we'll discuss what she had in her rooms. First, her bedroom had painted pier-glasses, which means just a mirror like the below.

Next, she had a canopy bed with damask and a Persian rug. The canopy's shape differed even in the same period but ICDC chosed the left one and 2012 film chose the left one.(Both are from the same period(Late 18 to 19th century.) style but with different designs.)

Following is what furniture she had in her room. Etagere(set of shelves), bookcase, lots of books and papers, inkstand, blotting book(became important in later chapter), work table, dressing case and toilet. I brought all of the examples from 19th century.

And in the boudoir, it had gilded fillets but I don't get what does this mean. Does this mean the wall structure's fillets or the others?

In addition, it seems like the staffs merged the drawing room and bedroon in ICDC, since the armchair was seen in bedroom scenes. and we can see the Paris Green wall on the mirror in the piano-organ scenes. The 19th century's tapestry and armchair, which probably Cosette used.

But I don't get the what's actual piano-organs are. Searched through the internet, and even with the original French word, but the results are always about half the piano and half the organ.(Please help me!)

Plus, I'll add Cosette's bedroom in 2012 film. Though it was only with a few minutes,her but it was beautiful to look and got to see her writing tools and the blotting book.

3. Toussaint's Room

Did not have that much information in the Brick nor other adaptations. Probably this is the other chamber mentioned on earlier. Then, it could be that the servant used the almost same room as the master in this way? If this is true, Valjean and Cosette were indeed a good employeer.

The attic and the house of Valjean would be on the last part.

[velvetgoldie]

On Captain Jas. Hook’s timeline: a trick of narration and metatextuality

To most, Captain Hook is, and always will be, Peter Pan’s greatest foe; but that would be without taking into account James Matthew Barrie’s lifework: fleshing out what remains to be his most thorough character.

Sixteen years after the publication of the 1911 novel of Peter Pan, and twenty-three years after the first apparition of the eponymous character on stage, it was not the boy who couldn’t grow up who was chosen to be the center of Barrie’s speech at Eton; neither was it Wendy Darling - by many accounts the true hero of the story. Instead, Eton’s provost sent the following prompt to the revered author: “James Hook, the pirate captain, was a great Etonian, but not a good one”. It was the author’s role to refute this statement; which he did, and magnificently so. But what we learn from this speech seems contradictory from what had been established from the novel... Unless you study it by taking into account Barrie’s chief characteristic as an author: he is, and is remembered as, a wonderful storyteller.

Barrie’s style in Peter Pan (1911) is remarkable as he constantly steps away from his role as a narrator and reveals his hand in spinning the story as its author. For instance, in chapter 5, the narrator/author placidly remarks:

“Let us now kill a pirate, to show Hook's method. Skylights will do.”

We switch from description to action as the narrator dictates; and as such, the narrator shows that he is not only narrating, but also choosing how the story goes along. This kind of storytelling is traditionally used orally; here, it feels as though the written text is alive, being spoken as we read. Funnily enough, this kind of narration isn’t confusing for children at all; instead, it reinforces the fictional aspect of it all. The children reading musn’t fear for Peter or Wendy or the Lost Boys; for it remains, after all, a story.

But is Barrie only using metatextual tools to reassure the children? A closer look at the text shows otherwise.

It’s one thing to write the story as though it were told orally; it is another to create doubt in the mind of the reader by slipping in-and-out the diegesis. Often, the author relates the events as though they had been shared with him by someone else; to keep in mind the fifth chapter of the book, we can read:

“I have been told that he [Captain Hook] was a raconteur...”

And this recurrent use of “being told”, “having heard”, etc., suddenly fleshes out this fantastical world, by connecting it to the seemingly actual life of the author. Not only does Barrie tell and shape the story to his will, but he seemingly takes elements from his friends, acquaintances, and other faceless and nameless figures that only serve to give credit to his story.

This fascinating blur between real and the fake has also been manipulated by other great authors to the destination of children: one of the most famous examples might be none other than “Lemony Snicket” of the Unfortunate Events series. And there might have been some inspiration from Barrie when writing the thirteen mystery books; for Barrie often appears as an investigator himself.

Indeed, his 1927 lecture is not only a reply to the prompt given to him a month prior, but an investigation; as Brian Till puts it in his article “The Secret History of Captain Hook”, 

“Barrie takes the tone of an investigative reporter or prosecutor-judge, dutifully presenting the facts he has found.”

In his speech, and in order to “prove his case”, Barrie presents not fiction, but facts - heard from acquaintances and friends. Barrie mentions names as one would call witnesses to the bar: Mr. Jasparin, or Hook’s Aunt Emily, provide accounts which have to be taken for granted. It becomes difficult to keep in mind it is all fiction, as James Matthew Barrie remains ambiguous of what his actual role might be: both author, narrator, investigator, and witness.

Allow us, after having presented our facts, to round them up with the actual question at hand: what is Captain Hook’s actual timeline? This question might be asked by whoever read both the novel and Barrie’s lecture. Indeed, if one takes into account the novel, Hook is a contemporary of Stevenson’s Long John Silver (the “Sea-Cook”); thus, an 18th century-pirate. However, if one takes into account the latest additions Barrie made with his Eton speech, Hook is a contemporary of Barrie; thus, a 19th century pirate. It is known that only Peter Pan remains forever young; his Lost Boys grow up and are replaced by others. Therefore, it is out of the question to consider that Hook managed to live for over a hundred years.

So while both descriptions can be considered canon, which is actually real?

The following extract is from Hook’s description in the novel:

“In the midst of them, the blackest and largest in that dark setting, reclined James Hook, or as he wrote himself, Jas. Hook, of whom it is said he was the only man that the Sea-Cook feared. [...] In manner, something of the grand seigneur still clung to him, so that he even ripped you up with an air, and I have been told that he was a raconteur of repute. [...] A man of indomitable courage, it was said that the only thing he shied at was the sight of his own blood, which was thick and of an unusual colour. In dress he somewhat aped the attire associated with the name of Charles II, having heard it said in some earlier period of his career that he bore a strange resemblance to the ill-fated Stuarts...”

What transpires from this entire description are the many marks of hearsays (which have reached both Barrie’s ears and, more interestingly, Hook’s). “Of whom it is said...”, “I have been told...”, “it was said...”, “having heard it said...”; all these are proofs that none of these descriptions come from first-hand accounts.

These second-hand accounts somehow differ from the accounts given in Barrie’s lecture at Eton in 1927; in the novel, Aunt Emily or Mr. Jasparin are nowhere to be found - which also means there are no “reliable” sources for these comments on Hook’s character. In the novel, these comments remain sourceless - thus, vague and unreliable. While Barrie turns himself into an investigator for his Eton speech, his intention isn’t the same with the Peter Pan novel. The novel is destined for children, and as such, it makes sure the children feel impressed by the main foe of the novel. In order to accomplish that, it creates a villainous (and by extension, mysterious) aura to wrap around Hook’s shoulders: what can be more impressive than the man itself, if not the man’s reputation?

Therefore, while the most plausible, but perhaps not the most satisfying, reply to the question is saying that Barrie hadn’t planned to make a lecture about Hook more than twenty years after his first apparition (which explains the time difference between both descriptions), one can offer an alternative.

Captain James Hook might very well be a 19th century Etonian who happened to stumble into piracy and chose to contribute to his fearsome reputation by encouraging, if not starting himself, rumors about his encounters with fantastical 18th century pirates such as Long-John Silver. After all, isn’t Hook known to be a talented “raconteur” himself? As a storyteller, Hook has the capacity to re-invent himself; we know that even his appearance is fashioned after that of 17th century English King Charles II, blurring the timeline even further. By incarnating the very idea of a timeless pirate, deliberately mixing elements from three different centuries, Hook conceals himself from his own mortality - even if, in the end, it isn’t enough to avoid his fate.

The similarities between James Hook and James Barrie are many, and most certainly not fortuitous; these resemblances might culminate in their capacity to spin a story to their will, as Hook chooses to reshape his own image, while Barrie reshapes Hook. In the end, it is difficult to understand where one begins and where one ends; the only thing that remains certain, is that there is still many a mystery left within the intricate text that a peculiar storyteller left us with.

[mariana-oconnor]

The Veiled Lodger pt 2

Team Lion represent!

Poor lion deserved none of this.

Then, having reassured her, we followed her up the straight, badly-carpeted staircase and were shown into the room of the mysterious lodger.

Wow, Watson. You weren't satisfied with insulting her last time, now you're insulting her interior decor?

From keeping beasts in a cage, the woman seemed, by some retribution of Fate, to have become herself a beast in a cage.

Watson is also on Team Lion!

Long years of inaction had coarsened the lines of her figure, but at some period it must have been beautiful, and was still full and voluptuous. A thick dark veil covered her face, but it was cut off close at her upper lip, and disclosed a perfectly-shaped mouth and a delicately-rounded chin. I could well conceive that she had indeed been a very remarkable woman.

And then he's getting horny on main again, because he is Watson and we all know Watson has three settings with descriptions of people: horny, disgusted, and animal references.

"Because the fate of someone else depended upon it. I know that he was a very worthless being, and yet I would not have his destruction upon my conscience. We had been so close—so close!"

She was either having an affair or she has a secret relative. My money is on affair.

The woman rose and took from a drawer the photograph of a man. He was clearly a professional acrobat, a man of magnificent physique, taken with his huge arms folded across his swollen chest and a smile breaking from under his heavy moustache—the self-satisfied smile of the man of many conquests.

Oh yeah, Watson is in horny setting atm. But also judgy. You cannot tell how many 'conquests' a man has had from his smile, Watson. I refuse to believe it.

"That is Leonardo," she said.

Leonardo???!

Although, from the description, maybe it's closer to this version:

It was a dreadful face—a human pig, or rather a human wild boar, for it was formidable in its bestiality. One could imagine that vile mouth champing and foaming in its rage, and one could conceive those small, vicious eyes darting pure malignancy as they looked forth upon the world, Ruffian, bully, beast—it was all written on that heavy-jowled face.

Animal imagery and disgust. Watson's really pulling out all the stops for this one. I like how Mrs Ronder is just 'compare, contrast' right up front, instead of actually explaining anything. This is a show and tell presentation.

"He tied me down and lashed me with his riding-whip when I complained."

What is it with these abusive spouses and beating their wives with riding crops? That's the sort of thing you only do after extensive discussion and clear, informed consent.

Welp, Team Lion is currently winning.

"We planned that he should die."

Oh, it was premeditated. Good for you.

"We made a club—Leonardo made it—and in the leaden head he fastened five long steel nails, the points outwards, with just such a spread as the lion's paw. This was to give my husband his death-blow, and yet to leave the evidence that it was the lion which we would loose who had done the deed."

Look, look, look, look. I am fine with killing the evil, abusive husband. Two thumbs up. Could not be more onboard with this plan. But blaming the lion. You couldn't have come up with a plan that didn't involve a poor animal being implicated and (presumably) put down because of it?

Come up with a different way of killing him and just give each other alibis. Don't blame the poor lion.

"Its hot, filthy breath had already poisoned me and I was hardly conscious of pain."

I... don't think lions have poison breath. Like I've never met one in real life, but I feel like I might have heard about that if it's true. And I especially don't think their breath is bad enough that you can't feel the pain from having your face eaten off. Not that I've ever experienced that either. I think it might have been the shock.

"When I came to myself, and saw myself in the mirror, I cursed that lion—oh, how I cursed him!—-not because he had torn away my beauty, but because he had not torn away my life."

I mean, understandable, but also you did keep him trapped in a cage, force him to perform for crowds and then frame him for murder, which I assume he was killed for. Like... you may have deserved just a leeeeettle bit of mauling. Karmically. Perhaps.

Then Holmes stretched out his long arm and patted her hand with such a show of sympathy as I had seldom known him to exhibit. "Poor girl!" he said. "Poor girl! The ways of Fate are indeed hard to understand. If there is not some compensation hereafter, then the world is a cruel jest."

I don't know why Watson is so determined to tell us that Holmes rarely shows sympathy when he shows sympathy in almost every other story. He shows sympathy to the characters who deserve sympathy.

And Eugenia here does deserve it, although it was a dick move to frame the lion. Her life has pretty much sucked. Can't blame her for trying to get out of it.

"Your life is not your own," he said. "Keep your hands off it."

Well, my last sentence was not supposed to be foreshadowing.

Holmes is not here for that Romeo and Juliet bullshit. (Not that this is about Leonardo dying, but still)

Although if she's already dying, would this be considered closer to euthanasia?

But she implies the reason she wants to do it is because of her face. I'm glad that Holmes is having none of that. The attitudes here towards her scarring are just all over horrendous. But I'm so glad this story ends with her choosing not to do it, because the message of 'if you are a woman who has lost her beauty and become disfigured your life is not worth living' would have been a horrible one. Glad they avoided that ending.

That was... short, and very messy. I'm glad she got out of the abusive situation, but I wish she'd actually been able to do something with her life rather than shut herself in her rooms forever to hide from the world. I'm also sad the lion had to die for her freedom.

Just very sad all over, this one.

[josefavomjaaga]

Joseph and the ladies

Even Thierry Lentz, very well disposed towards Joseph and really trying to show in his book that Joseph was much more than the weakling he is often perceived as, is quite open about how Joseph spent his free time from the job as king of Spain:

In the Royal Palace or in La Moncloa [a country house], Joseph indulged in two of his favourite private activities: getting rich and loving.

With regards to the first activity, there’s a long story involving, among other things, the crown jewels of Spain, of which a certain amount at some point disappeared from Madrid (Napoleon blamed it on Murat but later learned that the thief had been his brother dearest). And as far as the second activity is concerned, Lentz of course also names the Marquise de Montehermoso, »non exclusive holder of the title mistress« [maîtresse en titre non exclusive]. But there are more. Plenty more.

So many that Colonel Desprez, Joseph’s clumsy aide de camp who had gone all the way to Moscow in order to hand Napoleon a letter of complaint, would later have some acerbic comments on his former master, put together in a report called »Caractère du roi d’Espagne, Joseph Bonaparte«. But this was indeed much later, after the fall of the empire, during the July monarchy, and – possibly on demand of one Marshal Soult . (The question of allowing the exiled Bonaparte family back into France frequently came up.) Soult and Joseph obviously kept up their mutual dislike a long time after Napoleon’s death.

Desprez in this report comments about the Marquise de Montehermoso as follows [quoted in Thierry Lentz, »Joseph Bonaparte«]:

This woman had an exquisite mind, a strongly organised head [...]. She didn't know anything about love other than the physical pleasures and she readily acknowledged this [...]. Her constant aim was to become rich [...]. The weak prince poured out showers of gold and, although forced to use this means, he never ceased to believe himself tenderly loved […]

and about Joseph’s way of life in Madrid in general:

I have often groaned to see a man called to such a prominent role waste his time in vain occupations, laying out paths, planting trees, tearing down walls, building others, changing at every moment the comings and goings of his chambers; giving parties [...], supervising the preparations himself, reading tragedy and repeating to exhaustion the passionate roles of which he thought himself suited to express the delirium [...]. I laugh with pity to see a king, whose throne is trembling, exhaust his attention on hemistichs [...].

But not everyone judged Joseph so harshly. Somebody who seems to even have greatly admired Joseph’s success with women is another aide de camp, General Bigarré. That’s not all too astonishing, as Bigarré’s own memoirs are a crude mix of brutalities, battle scenes, and lewd descriptions of himself seducing teenage girls. About Joseph he says:

In Spain, as in Naples, this prince has been bitterly criticised for occupying himself a little too much with women during the time he governed these two kingdoms. I will agree that he had a particular fondness for this sex, that he did not disdain conversations with the liveliest ladies of his court, that he was even very gallant with several of them, but nevertheless, I repeat, he never forgot what his duties as sovereign required of him.

Which is something, I guess. About Joseph’s entry into Sevilla and his tour around Andalusia, Bigarré also has an interesting remark:

The noble Andalusians, for their part, did not know what to think of in order to show the new King of Spain their love and devotion; some sent him a dozen magnificent bulls as a present, others perfectly harnessed Andalusian horses, and several placed their wives, daughters and houses at His Majesty's disposal. [...]

Hello there, strange French king! Here’s my bull, my horse, my house, my wife, my daughter – take your pick!

[…] the ladies of Sevilla who were invited also found the King of Spain very amiable and attractive. It is a fact that this prince had a wonderful gift for pleasing women. I do not know whether winning over women formed part of his policy, but in all the cities he visited he made many conquests, not only as a king, but also as a man.

Bigarré’s admiration here is palpable.

Bigarré also must have been very well informed about Joseph’s successes in this field, as apparently (according to Thierry Lentz), Joseph took care of Bigarré’s favourite mistress, a Madame Finesi, wife of an Italian actor, whenever the general was on a mission out of town. Bigarré in turn claims to once have had a fling with the Marquise de Montehermoso. But as Napoleon’s police spy Lagarde wrote home, these were hardly the only ladies whose company distracted Joseph from his »political chagrin«. Lentz also lists a Marquise de Jacuso and a Nancy Derrieux, wife of some official in the administration, as regulars in this early 19th century edition of a royal swinger club. Varying female extras were approached through Joseph’s valets, who habitually had to adress young ladies about their willingness to meet the king in private.

For the final judgement on this topic, here’s Napoleon, in Bertrand’s »Cahiers de Sainte Hélène«, echoing what cardinal Ruffo had told him:

Prince Joseph had gentle manners, fine qualities, but he could never attend to business and never pursued anything. He was locked up with a few women, not to fuck all the time, but for the pleasure of society.

Yes, that’s Napoleon using the F-word with regards to his brother. And I honestly do not know if he wanted to somehow excuse Joseph in emphasizing that it was only »for the pleasure of society«, or if he wanted to make sure people didn’t think too highly about Joseph’s stamina...

[ngmn2002]

Ch 109: Random thoughts

Ok... let's get started!

Yashiro shield, huh?

A great one, have to say. if only it's not weak to hot guys.

Tsukasa is having a full day I see. Such a good boy, things are just going great with you Tsu, hmm? They are going as you want, huh? <3

Feels nice to see the 3 together once more. ~

Aww... precious little things... <3 <3

Little Nene looking like a small detective was cute!

Wooh... pissed off Teru... have to say he has a point, the destruction of the clock really got the keepers acting stupid over and over again with their funny court.

I see Akane has every right to say this about her then.

How funny. The only good thing about her is being... fast? And add to it... the ability to move time forward? The 2 things were completely useless for her against someone I have in mind.

Her stupidity shines. Wonder if she can amaze me or at least surprise me before things are over.~

Hanako-kun shield time!

I will say I would have loved it too see Tsukasa-kun shield as well in there... but nonetheless, the 3 look lovely!

Yugi Amane... they got that from...? I know Akane knows about it, so I have to assume the other 2 do as well? Cool.

His twin however,

First of all, I have to say I love his facial expressions a lot. He looks satisfied and really in a great shape. Boy... you love to be the mysterious guy, huh? ♡

Hmm... so yeah... it looks like we're back to this Tsukasa existence case. He seems to be unknown to the majority.

A thing that pleases him apparently, and I assume... the number that has him as his yorishiro, too.

"Tsukasa. My name is Tsukasa."

What a magnificent way to put it. Indeed. You're Tsukasa. Certainly one fascinating glorious fact. ☆

Now, one time he added a sweet detail of being 'Amane's younger twin brother'. He has a specific way of introducing himself, one I find really interesting.

He is Tsukasa. Himself. His own self.

Hmm... the Yugi part... has he ever voiced his full name before I wonder? People like his assistant, Akane, Teru, Kou referred to him as 'Yugi Tsukasa'. When it's him... only Tsukasa? At times he has me questioning myself how much depth his words in here really hold...

Despite a few diffrences, Yugi Tsukasa, Yorishiro Tsukasa, Tsukasa... are one and the same person, aren't they? They are 'you'. All of them are 'Tsukasa', right?

About Akane calling his name...

Yeah, he just took the string after Tsukasa informs he is 'Tsukasa' (aka the little who took his big bro's girl and went with her to the boundary) and added the 'Yugi' part. Thing is... weren't the names, titles, whatever written on the list he was reading from? So... wasn't Tsukasa's name written? What was written on it then? No.7's yorishiro? (if they knew but it doesn't look like it) '…..' Yugi? Was some other description about Tsukasa written in there or…???

Uhh… Tsukasa can be 'unknown' for various of reasons… maybe because he is a hidden yorishiro, maybe because he wants to be a mystery so his plans can keep going, maybe Amane himself doesn't want anyone to know about him… maybe there is something more serious to it… makes it really interesting to consider.

How much little is known about him by the other characters? Hmm... Doesn't that make it interesting you'll want to all about this 'hidden' 'unknown' 'mysterious' boy? Who is he really? What is he here for? What's he after? Ahem, I'm calling Nene's curiosity in here.

'I want to get to know you, Tsukasa-kun.' 'I want to know more about Tsukasa-kun.'

Maybe one day she'll go this way?

Cool enough, No.1 is bringing the ones that may have a hand in the destruction of the clock no matter how small that can be to a trial, but... aren't they forgetting... 2 more people? I mean, let's say those are the ones who led to that happening some way or another... don't we need to also include the girl who made the fuss so that can happen? The guy who actually broke the clock? I mean, they were mentioned later or at least the girl. It's funny only the guy with the idea was found 'guilty'. Doesn't this court bring whoever has the smallest hand in this situation to 'Justise'? So, Tsukasa who had the idea is guilty, but the girl who had him to go that far as he put it, is not? let's not forget Tsukasa mentioned her need of having their yorishiro destroyed for her wish to come true. How dangerous. Yet... nothing was said by any of the 3 on that information? What kind of lame court is that? Has the destruction of their clock really got them stupid as Teru put it? What happened to them later is well-deserved for all their ignorance. Let their childish court served them well. Seriously, I had some cool thoughts on how No.1 might go with the court and what issues they might consider yet the actual court felt funny... all of these much important issues were ignored by them? They focused on a small issue! What's the destruction of the clock in comparison to a guy clearly voicing out he is after your yorishiro and did the whole clock thing to get that achieved and as a matter of fact broke into your boundary together with the kannagi girl going after your yorishiro and got caught by one of you keepers? What's that in comparison to a thing you showed your strong disagreement on before?

Instead of focusing on the 'small' picture, focus on the big one that has it included! What they got out of their idiotic act makes sense. Judge the situation better next time, if there will be one.

Really?

Perhaps you should have sticked to the initial thoughts, it would have been bitter.

Speaking of all their love for their precious clock... I wonder why didn't they make any sort of move when Amane was playing with their precious thingy. Or even brought it up against him instead of that joke. That would have been better I assume? Hmm... maybe there is a catch in there?

Ok, let's get in detail with this 'court'...

Fun part:

Yugi Amane- Leader of the 7 mysteries.

Typical Hanako-kun. ~ Aww, Tsu and Nene can't help him, how sad.~ Buuut... the quote Kaku came up with... I never expected it will be back in the story in such a way.

If Hanako was bold enough... I wonder if a thing of 'That's totally stupid. Where's your evidence that proves I said that? I don't take the words of the other 2 clock keepers if they were to agree with you, you're a team, and I say I never said a thing like that in my life.' If only he acted tough and didn't...well...

....

Tsukasa's comment seems to have got me laughing hard, but with Amane-kun...

He fell to his knees then died a second time. XD

Seriously, his big bro pride... rip. What kind of cool persona were you keeping in front of little bro 'when he is aware of your actions' anyway?

Tsukasa's question, oh boy... he doesn't know he added salt to the injury with it. I can see Amane really wanting nothing more than to die a second time and bury himself in a hole of shame. Hilarious.

So now... is it safe to assume Tsu gets the full picture in here? I wonder.~ At least some glimpses of it.~ Does this answer your question... Mr.

Yashiro Nene- Present kannagi.

Woooh, congrats Mr. T. Moon! You got to discover a new side of Amane! Amusing, huh?

How could your heart or even ethics allow you to put a little child in such position? How shameful.

Really, Mr. Amane this arc he is either up or down. One time up, the other down. His heart won't be able to take it with either turn. Talking about his downs, he is on the floor. Talking about his ups, he is in outer space, everything is glittery around him. Wooh. Such a funny change of mood, I wonder if it will keep on going.

Seriously, he got 2 confessions from little Nene 2 chapters in a row! With a short amount of time between them if I might add! At this case the third should be the final, right? let it be when she is back to normal, in a normal setting please. I still wonder if he will say 'me too' or... not. Things are complicated with him. We can still hope for things to go smoothly.

You go little girl! I wonder if her hand ended up hurting her after giving the metal? bird such a hard slap, I mean... with the help of physics -that cried a lot this chapter because of her and Tsukasa- for every action (force) in nature there is an equal and opposite reaction. I will hope the slap wasn't too hard for her own sake, especially when she is just a little girl.

Teru- Student body representative.

Woooh, so sad his charm didn't work. lol Aside from Kaku's reaction... the other 3, let's leave Nene aside, Hanako as well. We don't take the reaction of a person who likes/doesn't like you. Tsukasa! Mr. neutral's comment...  have to say it's extremely hard for me not to agree with him, he is the guy who reads faces, sees past what people say and right into the desires in them. So... Teru has a dark destructive side. he kinda share it in common with Hanako, huh? The one who wants to become a dinosaur and burn everything that comes his way. they can be similar in some cases, including a lil bro complex one. Funny.

Though, at times I wonder if Tsu has anything against the Minamoto clan, being exorcists and all. They seem to be a thing unneeded in his ideal word, just like the 7 mysteries. If he shared a some kind of bad past with them... hmm...

Ok, moving ahead of ourselves, let's leave the last case for now and talk about the court so far, some serious talk.

Let's see...

With Amane's case the keepers ignored a thing that can be taken as a serious 'motivation' of his, "you failed to repair the clock in the past and to get to use it to achieve what you want, that's why you're mad and decided to break it instead" and went for "your shameful thoughts" instead. Why?

With Nene's, they forgot already mentioning her motive "life span" and accepted a "want to confess" excuse. Why?

With Teru's, Akane could have easily proved his innocence in the issue.

So why didn't he say a thing? Did he want Teru to get proved to be the guilty one?

"You'll be brought to justice in our court of law." Little Mirai said? Or so the keepers claim?

Seriously? Justice? That's one big word. All 3 keepers were being so very naive.

The funny thing is that Akane sided with Nene while trying to prove her innocence. Wow, what a 'court of law'.

Why Akane?

Oh boy... seems you've got yourself into a tight spot, Akane. Maybe you should have given your action a little bit of thought. Same goes for the other 2 keepers with you, they got some serious ouch moment out of this the funny court showdown they put.

I assume Teru will still side with him to face an 'enemy' of them both, still. A thing for Akane to be grateful about I think.

Akane... he could have defended the 3 cases. Teru was with him all the time and they rushed to the clock together, Nene was with the class he is a part of getting ready for the performance they were going to make when the clock got the serious damage, and Hanako was frozen when he found him. He made a joke of Tsukasa getting Hanako crying on the floor as he put it, right? Akane with a few sentences can put an end to the whole court. Let's see No.7's little brother and investigate those who 'might' be working with him. But, duh. There really was no need for all that 'meaningless' fuss.

At the end, with what Tsukasa voiced out, they should have really gone that way, but they just got things upside down of their own sake instead. Due to what? Due to them acting stupid with their claimed 'court of law'.

................

What kind of childish court was that? It felt like comic relief for the most part, really. If it wasn't for Tsukasa, things would have been really boring. Thanks to him I had some great fun! As always, making things fun and exciting is his specialty after all.

Talking about him... I assume it's time to move to the last case.

Due to pic limits... part 2.

[precambrianhottopic]

Fires of the North

CHAPTER 3: NORTHWARD

First ✦ Previous ✦ Next

Lazare Doromos, far and away the most famous person to ever arrive in the elusive city of Fell, had been in hiding for six weeks. He had arrived just prior to the Gossamer and the Company, with no great fanfare- on an utterly silent and starless night, the least magnificent of all the Doromos’ carriages slipped in through a lesser-used gate, unnoticed by all but a lone gatekeeper and the policemen keeping the night’s watch, and from there had seemingly disappeared entirely. This was, for a creature who stuck out like a tiger lily in the tundra, no small feat. Undoubtedly, any ordinary man who carried himself with the flamboyance and vividity of Lazare Doromos wouldn’t have lasted a day in the cold, mechanical city of Fell- fortunately for him, Lazare was no ordinary man.

There are a strange sort of folk, far to the South, who are not so bound to the physical laws of material reality as much as they are vaguely influenced by the circumstances of their existence. Where the sun burns warm no matter the season and the mangrove trees grow tall, there are men who may be parrots at noon and stags by sundown, women who dance ethereal through the myriad shapes of the world, and folk of all kinds who waver pleasantly through in-betweens and gray areas. They are the chimera, the many-faced, the shapeshifters, and legends of their existence pulse from North to South like a great web of color and light. The loftiest of all these legends had just arrived in technicolor glory on the doorstep of Fell, thousands of miles from where it began. It was with all the great bluster of myth at his heels that Lazare Doromos, Prince of the Many-Faced, disappeared without a word into the leaden streets. For six weeks, the city’s keenest eyes spotted an odd white hare here, a piebald raven there, or a stranger of some impossible description stumbling into a tavern and asking bright-eyed for a glass of whatever the barkeep liked best. None of them thought to connect these incidents to the man now standing out in the snow in an ensemble of at least four different colors of velvet, although they were all undoubtedly his own. At last now, he stood in broad daylight as though he were as solid and stark as the city itself, and broke into a grin.

Doromos stands, entirely by choice, just shy of six feet. If he so pleases, his chestnut curls fall just at his chin but are swept back from his startlingly blue eyes, his ears draw up to a small point, and his mandibular canines protrude ever so slightly, a delightfully paradoxical combination of features that appears on no worldly creatures but Doromos himself. This frivolous form is grounded within eight or nine layers of clothing, each of a different material and color, he carries himself like a peacock with tail at rest, surely waiting for some future Spring to disregard his outer layers and become truly ethereal. He approaches a stunned Marshall with a ridiculous, waltzing gait that walked the line between elegance and parody in the manner that only a well-trained nobleman can. Indeed, Lazare was from wealth, vast and unimaginable quantities that had been in his family for longer than the city of Fell had stood against the North. Perhaps one of his distant ancestors had been some prototypic businessman, who’d made his fortune selling the wheel shortly after its invention, and that from that catalyst family Doromos had gone on to become great and prosperous. His greatest of grandfathers was credited almost entirely with the creation of Brink, capital of the land of the Shapeshifters, and each one of his forefathers in turn had upheld that legacy until finally, Lazare Doromos was struck by a flight of fancy and left it all behind. 

Three opulent decades of luxury had left Lazare with a remarkable temperament. Having experienced almost no worldly hardships, he was largely unaware of the challenges of modern life, and floated through each day with a capricious vivaciousness that charmed and confounded everyone who met him. He had gone through life untarnished by the bitter horrors of capital, stumbling blissfully into adulthood by following whatever captured his attention at the moment. Lazare was entirely unskilled in most trades and industries, but through sheer luck and a genuinely willingness to learn he muddled his way through impulse after impulse. Above all, Lazare’s naivety had forged at his most fundamental level a deep, unfailing kindness. His golden heart fluttered desperately against the harsh winds of Fell now- whether or not the brutal North could claw apart his altruism is still yet to be seen. 

Like a brightly colored child’s doll dropped idly in the snow, Doromos offers a ridiculous little laugh and says, with a melodic lilt to his voice, “Sincerest apologies, my friend- did I startle you? I thought that I might admire these- well, these beautiful horses. Might I ask- are they yours?” His manner of speaking was rambling and winding, such that it took at least twice as long as necessary to get anywhere, leaving the listener in a pleasant stupor all the while.

Marshall seemed to snap back to some awareness, away from the gaudy stranger and toward what he knew to be true: “Yes, sir. They’re mine. Raised ‘em all myself, from foals.”

Lazare’s eyes lit up. “Oh, how delightful! They are truly glorious, good sir. Could I perhaps inquire as to what your name might be? I don’t believe we’ve met.”

“Marshall, sir. Jack Marshall. Assistant to Harkannon Hull, if you’re lookin’ to know.”

“Harkannon Hull! Now that’s a name I’ve heard before. He’s become quite the talk of the town, hasn’t he? Although I’m afraid, Marshall, my friend, that I may end up butting heads with him in due course- I believe we both have our eyes on that lovely little oil field. Of course, you seem like a fine fellow, and I wouldn’t want to besmirch you, but I do believe I could do something truly great if I do win this little race already taking shape, and I do apologize sincerely if what could very well be a great friendship winds up tarnished by our respective businesses.”

Jack stared calculatingly at Lazare, utterly dumbfounded. The flowery and wandering language he was being presented with meshed poorly with the simple boundaries of his mind, and he stood there for a while, struggling to comprehend what this odd man was trying to tell him, before giving up wholeheartedly and nodding in simple agreement. “Um- yes. Sir.” 

“Now, the horses!” Lazare continued, offering a comforting smile to Marshall to bring him gently back into the loop. “This one, here, he is just glorious.” He approached the furthest horse to the left, entirely black and entirely glorious, and placed a gentle hand on its nose- the animal swung its head away and pinned its ears to his neck. “Could you tell me about him?”

“That’s Kismet, sir.”

“Kismet! What a name!”

“Thank you, sir. He’s a good horse- young and on the shy side, but good. Strong” Jack had been closely watching Lazare’s truly poor handling of Kismet, and finally decided to intervene. At his slightest touch, the horse calmed, and Lazare smiled with wonder.

“He is perhaps the finest stallion I have ever had the pleasure of meeting.” Marshall thought about interjecting to add that Kismet was in fact a gelding, and that he was a far sight from the finest in this stable alone, but thought better of it just in time for Lazare to suggest- “I’d love to buy him, if you’re selling. How much?”

Marshall was knocked back by this. “Buy him? Are you sure?” Hesitantly, he amended, “Are you sure you know your way around a horse?”

“Quite sure, good fellow! See, my lovely wife and I traveled to this delightful town several weeks ago, in a chariot drawn by eight black horses just like your Kismet here. Tragically, though, only seven of them made it through the gates- sweet Sugar Belle was attacked while we rested one night and by morning the scene was so ghastly we had no choice but to go on without her. I’d love so dearly to have a full team for the journey home- and you seem like such a fine fellow, Mr. Marshall, you ought to have a bit of money in your pocket. Name any price at all, and I’ll take him.”

“That- that’s very kind of you, sir. I appreciate your offer, honest, I just need to think on it for a while, if that’s alright with you.”

“Of course! Please, take all the time you need- I wouldn’t want to rush you. In all honesty, Jackie my boy, the matter of your Kismet is far from why I came out here in the first place.” Lazare smiled blithely at his own impulsivity. “Tell me, what would a man like myself have to do to find himself a place on this survey trip I hear you’re taking?

And so it was that the surveyors, rather delayed, set out from Fell into the open jaws of Hyperborea. There were six of them in all- Jack Marshall, a rather frigid older man named Albert who would book his passage home shortly after returning, two guides from the city of Fell that had made the trek twice before, a supplemental Fell native from the city council with the sole objective of record-keeping, and Lazare, having taken the shape of the albatross to glide high above his companions. For four days, they pressed Northward, watching the vanishingly small window of sunlight wane further still and the temperatures plunge lethally far below zero. To the Southerners, conditions bordered on apocalyptic; to the Northerners, it was routine. On the very first night they made camp, Albert begged his guides to take him back to Fell, that surely none of them would survive the night, that they would freeze to death in their sleep or find a far worse fate further up the trail- the Fell-folk responded, simply, that he could not hope for better weather this deep into the year, and, if he so truly wanted to stop pressing North, he could put a bullet through his head right here to lighten their burdens- Albert quieted down after this, and spent the remainder of the journey in frightened silence. 

As the party pressed on into the ice fields, the North slavered and hungered for the warmth of the ignorant. On the third day, the frosty exoskeleton over the snow shattered under Marshall’s feet and he slid waist deep into freezing death, pulled back out by his companions just short of half his body becoming frostbitten beyond the point of salvage. On the fourth day, Lazare was struck clean from the sky by gale force winds and spent seven hours resetting broken bones before he could take flight again. Regardless, they pressed onward. The guides would no longer let them sleep at night for more than an hour at a time, for fear of freezing to death- the nights had already become so long they were beginning to swallow the precious few hours of sunlight remaining. On the fourth day, bitter and frozen, the travelers and scouts arrived in the promised land, and before their eyes beheld glorious nothingness. The patch of snow looked no different from every horizon they’d seen for the past four days, although a guide promised that all of their fortunes roiled beneath the surface. As the surveyor grasped a small lead pencil in her thick gloves and took out her ledger, patrolling the edges of the field with a calculating eye, Albert snapped at one of the guides.

“You’ve led us nowhere! I- I could’ve died, and for what? Some snow? I’ve seen nothing but snow for four blasted days!”

The guide, whose name was Nils, replied simply, “You ask to be brought, and we bring you. Promised nothing.”

Jack and Lazare watched on as Albert huffed and paced around restlessly against the blizzard. Lazare turned his gaze outward to the oil field and shook his head with an open-mouthed smile. “It is beautiful, wouldn’t you say? In its own way, of course.”

Marshall hummed. “I s’pose.”

“You can almost feel it. Well, leastways I can- the incredible promise of opportunity just beneath our feet, almost bubbling to the surface.” He clapped Jack Marshall on his shoulder. “Yes, my good sir, something great is going to happen here. Whether the credit ends up on my shoulders or with your Company, or- or perhaps someone else entirely- only the Stars know now, but I can say with utter conviction that this, this ground will be hallowed.” Lazare seemed overcome with the grandeur of it all, perhaps morose for the first time in his life- certainly, as he looked out at the endless blanket of white he found himself overwhelmed by something, out there in the snow. His eyes stayed fixed on the horizon like a hare just caught in the sights of a wolf. 

Jack said nothing. He just watched, and wondered, and waited for the journey home.

[mgd555]

{إِذْ عُرِضَ عَلَيْهِ بِالْعَشِيِّ الصَّافِنَاتُ الْجِيَادُ (31) فَقَالَ إِنِّي أَحْبَبْتُ حُبَّ الْخَيْرِ عَن ذِكْرِ رَبِّي حَتَّىٰ تَوَارَتْ بِالْحِجَابِ (32) رُدُّوهَا عَلَيَّ ۖ فَطَفِقَ مَسْحًا بِالسُّوقِ وَالْأَعْنَاقِ (33)} [ص : 31-33]

[Mention] when there were exhibited before him in the afternoon the poised [standing] racehorses.

And he said, "Indeed, I gave preference to the love of good [things] over the remembrance of my Lord until the sun disappeared into the curtain [of darkness]."

[He said], "Return them to me," and set about striking [their] legs and necks.

The description of the horse in the Qur'an made me feel like thinking about the appearance and that magnificent scene.

[cbk1000]

Please enjoy these select passages from the works of Amanda McKittrick Ros, an Irish writer self-publishing in the late 19th century to early 20th. Under a cut because I’ve included quite a few quotes; see how many you can get through without drinking!

‘Sympathise with me, indeed! Ah, no! Cast your sympathy on the chill waves of troubled waters; fling it on the oases of futurity; dash it against the rock of gossip; or, better still, allow it to remain within the false and faithless bosom of buried scorn. Such were a few remarks of Irene as she paced the beach of limited freedom, alone and unprotected. Sympathy can wound the breast of trodden patience,—it hath no rival to insure the feelings we possess, save that of sorrow.’ (This is the opening of one of her novels.)

‘Within the venerable walls surrounding this erection of amazement and wonder may be seen species of trees rarely, if ever, met with; yea, within the beaded borders of this grand old mansion the eye of the privileged beholds the magnificent lake, studded on every side with stone of costliest cut and finish; the richest vineries, the most elegant ferns, the daintiest conservatories, the flowers and plants of almost every clime in abundance, the most fashionable walks, the most intricate windings that imagination could possibly conceive or genius contrive.’

‘Though a man of forty summers, he never yet had entertained the thought of yielding up his bacheloric ideas to supplace them with others which eventually should coincide with those of a different sex; in fact, he never had bestowed a thought on changing his habits and manner of living, nor until fully realising his position of birthright, that had been treasured by his ancestors for such a lengthened period, and which, sooner or later, must pass into strangers’ hands, did the thought ever occur to him of entering into the league of the blessed.’

‘Arouse the seeming deadly creature to that standard of joy and gladness which should mark his noble path! Endow him with the dewdrops of affection; cast from him the pangs of the dull past, and stamp them for ever beneath the waves of troubled waters; brighten his life as thou wouldst that of a faded flower; and when the hottest ray of that heavenly orb shall shoot its cheerful charge against the window panes of Dunfern Mansion, the worthy owner can receive it with true and profound thankfulness. Three weeks had scarcely passed ere Sir John was made the recipient of another invitation to Dilworth Castle. This second effusion of cordiality required neither anxious thought nor prolonged decision how to act, knowing as he did that it would again serve to bring his present thoughts into practice by affording him another opportunity of sharing in the loving looks of one for whom he feared there dwelt a strong inclination on his part to advance his affection.’

‘”Have you ever visited that portion of Erin’s Plot that offers its sympathetic soil for the minute survey and scrutinous examination of those in political power, whose decision has wisely been the means before now of converting the stern and prejudiced, and reaching the hand of slight aid to share its strength in augmenting its agricultural richness?"’

‘Her blending complexion just now contrasted beautifully with the richness of her abundant brown hair. Her superbly formed eyes of grey-blue, with lightly-arched eyebrows and long lashes of that brownish tint, which only the lightly-tinted skin of the Arctic seal exhibits, looked divine.’

‘"Henry Edward Ludlow Gifford, son of my strength, idolized remnant of my inert husband, who at this moment invisibly offers the scourging whip of fatherly authority to your backbone of resentment..."’

‘At this stage Irene began to consider seriously the earnestness that accompanied the words of Sir John, knowing well she had been guilty, grossly guilty, of the charges with which he impeached her, and which were mixed with child-like simplicity, descriptive only of a world-famed bachelor. She pondered whether or not honesty should take the place of deceit—too often practised in women—and concluded to adopt the latter weapon of defence. Raising her hazel eyes to his, and clearing the weft of truth that had been mixing with the warp of falsehood to form an answer of plausible texture, fringed with different shades of love, she thus began...’

‘She tried hard to keep herself a stranger to her poor old father's slight income by the use of the finest production of steel, whose blunt edge eyed the reely covering with marked greed, and offered its sharp dart to faultless fabrics of flaxen fineness.’

‘"Could a king, a prince, a duke – nay, even one of those ubiquitous invisibles who, we are led to believe, accompanies us when thinking, speaking, or acting – could even this sinless atom refrain from tainting its spotless gear with the wish of a human heart, as those grey eyes looked in bashful tenderness into the glittering jet revolvers that reflected their sparkling lustre from nave to circumference, casting a deepened brightness over the whole features of an innocent girl, and expressing, in invisible silence, the thoughts, nay, even the wish, of a fleshy triangle whose base had been bitten by order of the Bodiless Thinker."’ (Wat?)

[chuplayswithfire]

Having managed to meet my reading goal for the year unexpectedly early (24 novels and novellas down so far) I thought I'd share some of the ones I really enjoyed and would widely recommend.

Title: Cemetery Boys

Genre: Young Adult, Urban Fantasy

Synopsis: Urban fantasy set in LA based in Latin American traditions, a trans boy brujex summons the loud irritating ghost of his apparently murdered classmate, who refuses to be released unless they find out what happened to his friends, who were with him around the time of his death. Our hero agrees to help his classmate if he promises to go peacefully to the afterlife, which will let him prove to his family that he is indeed a brujo and not a bruja.

Warnings/Content Warnings: non-explicit transphobia, struggles coping with the loss of a parent, family alienation, murder

Title: A Magic Steeped in Poison

Genre: Young Adult, Fantasy

Synopsis: Fantasy adventure set in fantasy ancient China. Our protagonist enters a competition to be the new court tea magician (there's a word but i can say it not spell it) for the princess of the realm, hoping to obtain a magical cure all - her sister is one of many who has been poisoned in a spread of poisonings across the kingdom. the catch? her sister is the one trained in the art of magics, not her.

Warnings: grieving the loss of a parent

Title: The Murderbot Diaries

Genre: Science Fiction, Dystopian Future

An organic-mechanic fusion construct who calls themself Murderbot is put into So Many Shenanigans trying to first protect their clients and then protect themselves in an increasing array of Events spinning out from the original novella. This is a series consisting of mostly novellas and a full length novel. Lots of focus on the nature of personhood, and what it means to be a person.

Warnings: dehumanization, discrimination, body horror and violence (but not described in an especially gorey way), the usual suspects for dystopian settings.

Title: A Master of Djinn

Steampunk, Fantasy, Murder Mystery

Set in steampunk fantasy Cairo, an agent of the department of magic and artifacts and supernatural entities is given a new partner and the task of investigating a mass murder. All the while, a stranger who claims to be the creator of the mystic age the world now lives in - a world where ancient magics and magical beings such as the djinn themselves have been returned to live alongside humans - is trying to provoke the people of Cairo into revolt. The majority of the characters are Muslim, and the main character is a wlw in a relationship with another woman. I adored them both, and honestly loved the entire wide tapestry of characters I was introduced to A Master of Djinn is really one of the best books I've read all year, and I've read some really good books this year. The universe P Djeli Clark created is vivid and imaginative and incredibly different from the vast majority of fantasy novels I've read before and absolutely, unlike any steampunk work I've ever read. This is actually the third in a series, as there are two proceeding short stories/novellas set in the same universe, however, the book gives you all the information you need on those events.

Warnings: descriptions of non-graphic violence, there are discussions of racism and colonization

Title: World War Z: An Oral History of the Zombie War

Genre: historical fiction (recommend the full cast audiobook format)

Synopsis: A historical fiction novel set ten, twelve years after the worldwide Zombie War was declared finished. The history of the zombie war is told from the perspectives of various survivors sharing their stories and understandings of the events that took place in the lead up to, during, and at the conclusion of the Zombie war. Perspectives are offered from characters who experienced the war in countries across the world, and the geopolitical analysis of how various countries and cultures would respond to the zombie war was magnificent. As someone terrified of zombies, I am happy to say that while this book is of course scary at times, it isn't a super graphic gorefest or anything like that.

Warnings: death, mass loss of life, descriptions of combat scenarios, everything you would expect to hear from people who lived through a Zombie apocalypse.

[1legitconnor]

Seven Snippets, Seven People

Shout out to @late-to-the-fandom for the tag! I'm going to post a snippet of description from each of the first 7 chapters of my book. I'm fairly confident in my dialogue abilities, but physical descriptions usually have me second guessing myself a little more, so that's what I'm sharing here.

Tagging: @awordchemist, @aalinaaaaaa, @authoralexharvey, @leave-her-a-tome, @lockejhaven, @nikkywrites, and @ryns-ramblings

Chapter 1 Snippet:

The tailor shop that Timmy works in in the small hamlet of Willowdale is not particularly grand, but it is decorated with a very distinctive personal touch. The walls are painted in simple patterns, but with bold colors. The art pieces on the walls are that of a child, straightforward in construction and unyielding in their defiance of the artistic rules that their creator did not yet know existed.

Chapter 2 Snippet:

Talia’s hair, styled as a messy, asymmetrical undercut, is as black as the tattoos of intertwined weapons and thorny vines that decorate her shoulders, chest, and back. Her skin, which would be pale if it were not so heavily sun-tanned, is marked with a scattering of old scars and her eyes are as blue as the water she always claims to be drinking. Even without her height advantage, she wields a presence and reputation powerful enough to intimidate the trained fighters and hardened veterans around her.

Chapter 3 Snippet:

Figuring out the best way to navigate the depths of the Elkmire Forest is notoriously difficult. Firstly, it is dangerous. It is populated with all manner of creatures, both magical and mundane, that are as deadly as they are magnificent. The choice to pass under the shadow of the Elkmire Forest is a choice to forfeit any expectation of safety. The second thing that the Elkmire Forest is known for is that, despite all reasoning to the contrary, nobody knows exactly how big it is.

Chapter 4 Snippet:

The painter continues her portrait, large and impressive as it is, careful to not make a single mistake. She looks up at the subject of her art, down to the canvas, and back up again. The folds and ripples of the pristine white cloak that hangs down from Alifras’ shoulders that make it look as though a light breeze is flowing through the room, the teasing of just a hint of the inside layer of the garment, red as the scales of a fire-dragon, Alifras’ golden-yellow shoulder-length hair, his lightly tanned skin, the artist misses nothing. The bright blue of his eyes, his arms crossed lazily behind his back, the books and papers neatly scattered across a nearby writing desk - each detail is noted by the keen eye of the painter as she translates it to the canvas in front of her.

Chapter 5 Snippet:

The beast’s long, barbed, 15-foot tail twitches and snaps angrily behind it. Its form shimmers and blurs as what meager moonlight there is refracts off of its glossy, midnight-colored coat, making it difficult for Madison to get an exact bead on it. The beast’s form blends and mixes with its own shadow. Indeed, the very shadows of the forest seem to reach out and claim the creature as one of their own children as it stalks slowly around Madison on six legs, circling, waiting for its moment to strike.

Chapter 6 Snippet:

They are in an abandoned combat arena that has long ago fallen into disrepair and disuse. The sun is up and Piper is sweltering under the full weight of her armor and shield. Her sword is still fake, but her opponent is real.

Chapter 7 Snippet:

It’s too late for Madison to kick away from the raft now. There’s too much swirling and pounding and pressure from the water for her to be able to correctly orient herself and the silt and dirt coming up from the river floor makes opening her eyes an impossibility. The raft, or whatever remains of it, should eventually find the surface. Her ability to do so on her own is less certain.

[gaunt-and-hungry]

The Fluidity of the Dress

Part 1: Fitting

Summary: Getting a dress fitted for a wedding day CW: None. Notes: First Person POV - 936 words - very short

It did not fit the way that it should. I wore it and it was comfortable on my body but it did not fit the way it should. My father and I had gone to London to get it fitted. I had sat petrified at the implications of what the seamstress would say, seeing me and my father walk into the shoppe. No questions had been asked. I had stood there as she pinned the dress. Hemmed it. Trimmed. Kept it as perfect and beautiful as it was. I kept reminding myself that this had been his grandmother’s wedding dress and then his mother’s wedding dress. The weight of the fabric only seemed to grow the longer I stood there. Curwen watched mindfully, speaking occasionally to the seamstress who worked diligently. She asked me several times who the lucky man was and if I was excited. She asked as if there was nothing amiss and we were just another young lady getting an heirloom fitted for her wedding day despite how little I properly filled the dress out. My hips, far too narrow. My shoulders helped provide the dress proper structure itself. There would be no issue with padding for certain. This would, indeed, work out quite splendidly. 

“Oh you look stunning,” her name was Rita. She was a brunette with the most magnificent braids I had ever seen on a woman of her status. She looked noble in and of herself and I smiled fondly at her in the mirror, a flush creeping up my cheeks from my throat.

“Thank you,” I whispered. It had been so quiet as she worked and made small talk with me. I could not shake the weight of what was happening from my shoulders that filled the dress’ fabric out a little. 

“For a garment so old, it’s well taken care of. I can tell this has been in a couple of generations. Goodness. It’s in such wonderful shape and you fit it quite nicely! Navy, is that right?” She asked softly. “You’re marrying a Navy Man?” 

I was startled for a moment. “How�� Oh,” I laughed, nervous, “You must know through the roster.”

“It’s of no consequence!” She assured, “Just curious is all. Your gown is fitting, I think. The colours will match his uniform. This blue is perfect contrast for the Navy Blue,” she seemed to be thinking out loud and paused, looking at me through the mirror as she fluffed out the bottom of the gown. The style was certainly less broad than the newer garments that women wore. “The pale of this tone will match quite lovely, I think. Just thinking aloud, dear. Trying to envision if I ought to take care of this more,” she came around and plucked at the collar of it, examining it, “Perhaps…” she continued, her voice dipping low, “I think you would look actually quite stunning if you wore yourself a high collar that was the same navy blue beneath this. Something that provides… modesty to your neckline,” her lips were in a sympathetic smile hoping that she was not trespassing much. “It may help it blend well with the garment themes.”

My guardian returned to my side, his tall and imposing figure weighing the options as we stood there. “Mmm… Would you happen to have any fabric of the shade you are thinking of?” He inquired, seeming pleased with the description. I turned a little in the mirror as she finished the last of her stitchings and stood back to admire her handiwork. 

“I do!” She was cheery and warm in everything she did, leaving me feeling a lot less nervous about the whole ordeal. There seemed to be no questions in her mind as to what she needed to do, only dedication to her craft. She dipped into the room over and brought out a beautiful sample of a rather velvety high collared dress shirt. “This will be too small for your figure and curves,” she iterated but held the sleeve up to where my collarbones were to compare it. “This would work quite well, I believe,” she offered, “if you were to take my advice. I presume your fiancée will be in Royal Navy. This would provide a lovely contrast and compliment to his own dress.”

Curwen looked to me and I smiled. Truly, I smiled, pleased with this idea greatly. “And,” she went on, “To boot, it will provide you with much needed depth in your profile. You have an excellent figure. This dress is beautiful and fluid with your form,” she grasped my hips, shifting me a little in front of the mirror, measuring with her eyes, “And I do think that your complexion would benefit greatly from a dark tone to accent your eyes.” Her confidence in tone lifted any questions away from my heart.

I nodded in agreement, half glancing to Curwen for approval. “I would like that very much. Do you think you could tailor something as such for me? With a high collar and in that shade?” I had never seen Curwen smile so proudly before. And yet he was pleased in a way I was relieved to see. He had been eager to move forwards with the preparations despite the fluttering nervousness in my belly and resistance upon my own end.

“Oh! I absolutely would be delighted to,” she assured, “Let me get your other measurements. Let us get you out of this and we shall proceed with what we need, yes?” She began unlacing my back with deft fingers and I felt a weight fall from my worried mind and back.