#the fat consul

[howtodrawyourdragon]

"This," said Alvin grimly, "is the Heir to the Hairy Hooligans." "The extraordinarily powerful warrior you were telling me about?" Asked the Fat Consul. He looked at Hiccup in astonishment. "But he's so very, very small!"

No, he's compact.

[writingsofwesteros]

Request:

Dark Aegon the conqueror takes the daughter of a king who refused to bow to him as his wife after he defeats her father and makes her remaining family watch as he consulates their marriage on her father’s thrown.

AN: Hi, I hope you like it x

NSFW

The dark chuckles of the conqueror echoed in her ears as his larger, hungry hands groped at her sweet, soft body. The dress that had clung to her curves that drew Aegon’s eyes to her in the first place was now in a puddle at their feet; ripped apart by the dragon King. “I think they enjoy witnessing this.” He cruelly began to whisper in her ear.

“They can see how much you enjoy this.” Aegon continued as his arm snaked her body. His fat, throbbing cock stuffed inside her weeping pussy. The King had not moved since he had bottomed inside her; teasing her as she whined. Her toes curling as soft gasps echoed around the throne room each time his fat cock twitched inside her.

“No..no, I’m not…” She hated the breathless tone of her words as her head fell back. His chuckling is only louder now. Aegon leaned in and began to mouth at her soft neck, marking her pretty, sweet skin for all to see. The pain and pleasure mixed deliciously inside her as the King began to rock his hips. “Hmm, so wet for me.”

It was something she could not deny as the wet, obscene noises echoed around the room full of her Lords and Ladies. The ones that had watched her grow, she thought to herself before his softer than she thought lips captured her own. His larger hand reached for her soft face and kept her impossibly close against him.

His fat tongue pushes in; dominating her own sweet one without any care or fight. All the while his thrusts continue and only push deeper. His hand snaked around her stomach that bulged as his cock only moved quicker. The wet, obscene noises echo once more as Aegon still darkly chuckles into her ear and watches her bright blush move over her sweet, soft body.

Aegon could only smirk as those bright eyes of his found the section where her family were standing. “It seems your brother is enjoying this a little too much.” The king whispered as she so prettily gasped out. Her eyes fell onto her older brother and whined at the sight of the dark desire moving over his eyes. A small smirk tugged on his lips as she moved to find comfort in Aegon’s touch.

“It seems you are more desired than you thought.” Aegon purred; smirk tugging on his lips before he leaned in and burrowed into her neck. The marks he had prettily planted on her sweet tasting skin only had his cock throbbing inside her warmth some more. Gods, how he had lasted this long, he will never know.

Her delicate, ringed hans reached for the throne to steady herself as he bounced her body up and down his thick length that was covered with her own wetness. Her stomach was only tightening in anticipation as the sound of their bodies slapping against each other echoed in the audience’s ears. She fought against staring at her family before Aegon realised her intent.

“Oh, my love…do you not like them watching?” He hummed as he gently took her neck in his hold. Aegon’s dark chuckles sounded out as her creamy, sweet pussy clamped down on his cock at the action. Oh, that would be something to explore later, he thought to himself as he guided her gaze towards her family. 

“I may have to bring them with us..” Aegon cruelly threatened as his larger hand slowly moved to her bouncing breasts. He ripped the thin material of a dress that was now below her station and soon those sweet, ample breasts of hers were now free for him to torture. The cold air brushed over her and he watched in delight as her pink nipples pebbled.

His mind flashed with how her body would change once he had claimed her completely; starting with those delicious breasts. Aegon grunted as his own desires got the best of him. Those larger hands of his moved to her hips as he helped the pretty Princess move against him, taking his throbbing cock deeper once more.

Aegon leaned in and passionately captured her lips; the sweet girl could only gasp as his tongue forced against her own again. Her body began to shake like a woman possessed whilst she reached for his hair. She tugged without care as the pleasure drove her to the edge whilst the King could only enjoy the ride immensely. 

His fingers soon replaced his thick, hot tongue as he began to thrust them at the same speed. Her drool soaked him as her climax ripped through her sweet, shaking body without warning. “Fuck…that’s it..” Aegon groaned; head falling back as he forced her to still bounce on his fat cock. Her orgasm squirting from her with each thrust.

The bruises that would litter her soft skin in the morning only brought more arousal to Aegon as he brought her against his chest. She could not escape even as her body fought to hide from the intense pleasure continuing its assault. Her toes curled as his fat, mushroom head pushed against her soft, spongy spot with ease.

Her sweet, creamy pussy milked him with ease as Aegon palmed at her breasts without any care. For a moment, those bright eyes of his found his pretty wife’s brother and the smirk on his lips only widened. Oh, he was going to have so much fun. His slender fingers slowly moved down her body now and began to rub at her too sensitive clit. 

Aegon was running out of patience now. The dance had been going for too long and now he just wanted to claim her. His larger hand came down on her arse as she cried out; tears welling up in those big, doe eyes of hers that had pulled him under a spell. Now, he would never allow her to leave his side. Aegon knew by the time he was finished with her - she would not want to either.

“No..please…not , not inside…” She stuttered out, much to his amusement as his cock throbbed. Aegon only hummed and forced his pretty bride to look at him. Her face was screwed up in pleasure as she whined and thrashed. Her movements only brought his own release now as he pushed deep and stayed there.

It was at that moment the fight began to leave her. Her body seemingly hummed and began to milk his still leaking cock as his cum flooded her with ease. Aegon had saved himself, forbidding his sister wives from his bed so he could fill his new bride. His cum slowly began to leak down his length as her soft eyes rolled back.

His hands moved to gently grope her breasts now as she cockwarmed him. Still, he needed to ruin her more - in her own eyes and the ones before him. Her mind had softened with ease as she lolled against his chest. But only a moment later did they flash open as a sharp gasp of hers echoed around the throne room.

She began to wiggle but Aegon’s grasp as ever was strong. The soft licking of her clit had her whimpering before she looked down. The familiar eyes of her brother locked on as she cried and shook her head; those delicate hands of hers moved to his head to force him away but Aegon only gently captured them and placed them behind her back; trapping her with ease.

Aegon only hummed as she thrashed some more but it only had her body rocking against her brother’s face. “It seems you are just a little whore after all.” The King purred and watched as she shook her head before her second climax ripped through her once more. “Did I tell you to stop?” He ordered the boy on his knees as his hand reached for the back of his good brother’s head and pushed him closer.

After that, he did not need any guidance as his hunger controlled him. Aegon’s fat cock began to harden at the mere sight of his bride losing herself once more. She whined and clamped down on him again as she wiggled. Aegon only smirked and leaned in; his spit falling into her mouth as she cried out. Her image was destroyed as was her spirit.

[sammaggs]

4x04 Mojo Rising | Tart

A tiny, totally inconsequential, Canadian inside joke and ex-pat grievance lay in the middle of Mojo:

It is very difficult to find lard for baking in America!!!!!!!!!

That is why the lard Dief eats is very specifically in the Consulate kitchen. Can’t get it elsewhere in Chicago.

I know this because I am a baker and I BEMOAN THE HIDEOUS LACK OF LARD HERE CONSTANTLY A LONG-TIME PERSONAL GRIEVANCE LAID BARE ON SCREEN so I ship Tenderflake to myself in the mail, a sad bastardizarion of the way in which god intended me to receive my pure, rendered pig fat

You know what else yall don’t have while I’m at it FROZEN TART SHELLS. I WANT TO BAKE SOME BUTTER TARTS. WHERE ARE YOUR FROZEN TART SHELLS!!!!!!!!! I wouldn’t have to be making my own butter tarts if yall had those either but HERE WE ARE

barbaric down here sometimes istg

Quiet Canadiana in due South [more]

[alittlepudge-neverhurtnobody]

kinktober #2

Latex Love 🖤 / Masquerade Ball 💃

For a culture that eschews Mundane holidays as strongly as it does, the Nephilim world goes buck fucking wild for any reason to celebrate. Alec has counted sixteen ice sculptures in this room alone, all made of Seelie ice so they’ll barely melt over the course of the evening, and that’s not even counting the carved ice runes keeping the raw bar cold. 

The occasion? It’s Consul Penhallow’s fiftieth birthday. Or it’s her fifth service anniversary? Alec’s not really sure. Izzy whispered it to him behind her hand after two glasses of champagne and he’s pretty sure she didn’t know either. 

He shouldn’t even be here. He has acres of paperwork piling up and a brewing civil suit between two rival warlocks that’s going to give everyone in a ten-block radius an ulcer if he doesn’t defuse it in the next few days. The last thing he needs is to be holding another glass of champagne in the ballroom of one of Lorenzo Rey’s insane properties, wearing a mask that obscures most of his face and half of his vision. 

Not to mention the inherent food safety risks of the raw bar. Eurgh.

He peels away from Jace, who’s diligently trying to figure out who literally everyone in the room is, with Clary hanging over his shoulder offering hints, and goes to inspect the rest of the appetizer offerings. He squints through his mask at the overembellished script on the little toothpick flags at the front of each platter. If Izzy weren’t already two drinks deep and totally bought into the quote unquote romance of a masked ball, he would have ripped the thing off half an hour ago, but he’s got a sneaking suspicion she’s got some kind of tracker on him to make sure he complies with the theme.

“What a spread,” comes a velvety voice from behind him, and Alec whirls, almost sweeping a platter of salmon tartlets to the floor. 

“Uh — what?”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” says the stranger, not sounding it. “I didn’t mean to startle you. I was just admiring the opulence. Clearly the Clave spared no expense to celebrate Consul Penhallow. If only they’d devote the same resources to infrastructure.”

Alec, caught off guard, huffs out a laugh. “I know, right? We could actually convert to green energy instead of just saying we will every few years.”

He can’t make out the stranger’s eyes behind his elaborate mask, which is disconcerting. With his luck he’s probably talking to someone responsible for the green energy initiative. 

But the stranger laughs. Alec could swear his voice sounds familiar, but it’s so loud in here and everything echoes off the flagstone, so maybe he’s wrong. He doesn’t look like anyone Alec knows, from what he can see of him. He’s wearing a suit made from deep, rich purple material with a gold floral design that looks like it would have a texture if Alec reached out and touched it. His hair is dark and falls in a glossy swoop over the right eye of his intricate gold mask; the left side of his mask is adorned with peacock feathers so Alec can’t see either of his eyebrows. He’s a bit shorter than Alec, and he’s a lot rounder. Like, a lot rounder. 

“But still,” the stranger is saying. “I can’t complain. I’m here, aren’t I? I never could resist a party.”

Alec tries not to stare, because he can’t actually think of anyone in the Clave — anyone in the Nephilim world, really — who’s fat. Is that weird? That’s probably weird, right? 

But this guy — maybe it’s his size, maybe it’s his whole purple getup and the peacock feathers, but he looks like the word he uttered a moment ago: opulence. Hoping he can’t see too much through his mask either, Alec subtly checks him out: a round face beneath the edge of his mask, pretty lips, soft double chin. Thick arms, plump hips, a rotund belly that sets his stance wide. His suit fits him well, and he carries his weight like he’s not interested in making himself smaller. Alec’s throat is suddenly as dry as his love life.

“Like what you see?” asks the stranger, his voice tipping up coyly. He turns in an exaggerated circle for Alec to drink in, finishing with a graceful little bow that makes his stomach pour forward. 

“I, uh, just — I really don’t know who you are,” Alec stammers. “But I guess we’re not supposed to tell, right? It ruins the mystique or something?”

“I’ll ruin your mystique,” the stranger purrs, and Alec must look verklempt because he adds hastily, “Care to accompany me through the hors d’oeuvres? I’m famished.”

He holds out a hand like the Southern belles in that Mundane movie phase Izzy went through back when she was thirteen. He’s even wearing lace gloves, for god’s sake.

Alec is zero percent sure about taking some random guy’s hand in a crowd of his coworkers, friends, and loved ones, but then he remembers that probably no one can tell who he is, either, and so why the fuck not. 

He takes his hand. The guy’s hand is warm and soft beneath the lace, nails glinting darkly, and his grip is firm in a way that makes Alec feel secure. They’re just two guys being dudes, cruising the appetizer table in a very casual way.

“Not feeling the raw bar?” Alec jokes nervously, and the guy purses his lips. Can the guy feel his hand sweating? “No? Not an oyster guy?”

The stranger scoffs. “Once you’ve had them prepared the selkie way off the coast of the Hebrides, nothing else quite measures up. And besides, I haven’t lived for centuries just to go belly-up from some improperly chilled oysters. Seelie ice hardly maintains the temperature that premium seafood requires.”

Alec momentarily gets derailed by belly-up and can’t help dropping his gaze down to where the stranger’s stomach rounds out just inches from his own. It’s oddly tantalizing, and he swallows once, twice, before trying to latch onto some more relevant information. Centuries — so he must be a Downworlder. 

 “Centuries?” Alec echoes. “Which was your favorite?”

It feels for a second like it might be a stupid question, but the stranger replies without missing a beat. “I’ve a taste for the Baroque period, if you couldn’t tell.” He gestures to his outfit with a flourish. “I sat for Rubens back in the day, if you get my drift. I actually had this mask specially crafted for a ball in Antwerp back in, oh, it must have been 1611, maybe 1612.”

Alec doesn’t know what half of those words mean, but from the guy’s tone, he thinks he might be flirting. “I don’t know who that is,” he admits, taking a plate for himself and handing one to the guy. “The Shadowhunter education isn’t big on art history.”

“Really,” says the guy, and he sounds genuinely interested. “But — all the angels!”

“Yeah, I mean, half of those aren’t actual angels. They don’t really look like that. Or, I guess, maybe they would to a Mundane, but they’d get blinded by divine light way before they could tell what an angel looked like anyway.” He takes a Gruyère puff for himself and then, on what feels like a daring whim, puts one on his stranger’s plate as well. The stranger’s pretty lips curl into a smile. There’s glitter on them, or something? Izzy would know what it’s called, and she would never stop making fun of Alec if he asked. 

“You know, that’s oddly reassuring,” muses the guy, popping the Gruyère puff into his mouth and reaching for another. “I’ve always wondered if those horrible little ill-proportioned cherubs are what you Nephilim see in times of crisis.”

Alec bursts out laughing despite himself. “I don’t think the Clave could take itself half as seriously if they were.” The stranger smiles too, warm and soft, and Alec backtracks: “Hey, wait, you still have to tell me about sitting for Ruben or whoever.”

The guy hesitates, and for a horrible second Alec is sure that he’s blown it. But then the guy leans in and says, his voice low and rich, “Proposition: Let’s fill some plates and find somewhere a bit quieter.”

It sends a chill through Alec in the good, sexy way. He nods his agreement, and the guy gives one quick, pleased nod, as if to say, It’s decided. “There’s a courtyard around here somewhere, if I’m not mistaken.”

Alec smirks. “Oh, so you’ve been to Lorenzo’s parties before?”

“Have I.” He grimaces. “A necessary evil in my line of work, I’m afraid. One must keep things diplomatic, no matter how tacky one finds them.”

Alec snorts. Part of him wants to say fuck the food, let’s go hide in the courtyard, but all he can see is this guy’s perfect mouth and he kind of wants to see more of it. And if there’s something mesmerizing about watching him carefully choose and then eat appetizers, well, then, Alec is simply not going to dwell on that right now.

He throws some stuff on a plate and tails his stranger through the room, breathless despite the fact that his legs are longer and he doesn’t need to work to keep up. Alec’s spent a lot of time quietly lusting over all the stupidly hot things guys do when they don’t know someone’s watching, but watching slim, muscular guys amble around the training room and strut around in leather is very different from watching this guy. His big belly pulls him forward, and the slight sway of his gait makes it clear that his thighs rub together despite his fancy suit. His ass is tremendous from behind, not just in size but in — Alec doesn’t know what word to apply to it. It’s majestic. He thinks about running his hands over it, skimming over the rolls of his wide hips and up to the ample plush of his belly, and he almost drops his plate.

“Oh — here,” says his stranger, hanging a quick left and directing Alec out a hidden door to what appears to be a small, private jungle. “It’s quite lovely, I’ll give him that. Even if it’s a bit — gauche.”

The air outside is cool and a little wet, not humid but almost dewy in a hopeful, vernal way. His stranger sets his plate down at a little wrought iron table in the corner by a small waterfall set into the lush greenery and rockwork. His stranger eases into an iron chair beset by frilly curlicues, and it is not lost on Alec how much he overflows it. If the seat had arms, he certainly wouldn’t fit; as it is, he has to scoot the chair back from the table so it doesn’t dig into his belly.  

“I wanted to be chivalrous and get you another drink,” sighs the guy, reclining a bit in the chair in a way that puts not just his gut but the bulk of his thighs and snug seams of his trousers, “but alas. Now that I’ve sat, I fear I won’t be getting back up for a while.” He palms his enormous belly, and Alec, eyes wide in sudden, abject enchantment, swears he can see him wink through his mask. “It’s a lot of effort to haul all of this around.”

“I’ll get drinks,” Alec barrels over him, and before the guy can even finish his sentence, he’s off and running, practically colliding with the first cocktail waiter he sees. He grabs two champagne flutes and gets halfway back to the buffet before realizing he has no earthly way of carrying two glasses and a plate. Suddenly it feels like the most important thing in the world to get this guy something nice to eat now that he went to all the work of taking Alec to his romantic secret courtyard. Either the alcohol is going to his head or he’s literally under a spell, and he’s pretty sure that the Clave’s suite of pre-event warding would prevent the latter.

His stranger has worked through quite a bit of his plate by the time Alec returns, panting, and sets the glasses down between them. The guy tips his head up to Alec, chin muddling softly into his soft neck, and smiles at him dreamily. “Thank you, darling. Sit, eat, and I’ll explain Rubens to you.”

Alec sits and eats and watches his guy eat too. Between bits of his anecdote, his guy has something to say about each hors d’oeuvre, remarking on the flavor balance or mouthfeel or seasonality, and Alec soaks it all in, rapt.  

“And so Rubens,” he’s saying, “had a penchant for — fuller-figured girls, if you will, like yours truly.” He pauses, preens. “I was quite large even then; it’s a shame it’s been rather lost to time. If I remember correctly, I was Rubens’ only male nude. It’s truly a triumph; he painted me spilling out of a dressing gown, fresh from the bath, all rosy and damp —”

Alec chokes on a crumb of tartlet crust. His brain feels like that video Jace showed him of an entire fireworks display going off at once. 

“And by ‘lost to time,’” concludes the guy cheekily, “I mean ‘spelled into oblivion in my apartment, lest the Met acquire one of my greatest honors.’”

“You’ll have to show me,” Alec grinds out. The guy’s lips curl into that smile again, and slowly, he reaches one plump, begloved hand across the table. Alec takes it. And maybe he is under a spell, because he can barely believe the words on his tongue even as he cues them up.

“Can I kiss you?” 

His guy’s smile widens. “I thought you’d never ask.”

And well, Alec’s not going to make him get up for it, so he scoots his chair closer to his stranger and leans forward until he’s practically sprawled across the guy’s stomach. He cups his soft cheek in one hand, breathes in his sweet, spicy, incense-y smell —

— and their masks bash together.

“God damn it,” says Alec, and the guy laughs. 

“I’ll show you mine if you show me yours. You’ll see it in the Rubens eventually, I hope.”

“Yeah, okay,” says Alec, grinning back. His own mask is pretty plain — black with some silver scrollwork. Izzy picked it out under strict instruction to get him the least obnoxious one available. “On three?”

“On three,” his guy agrees, and they count together: one, two, three.

Alec pulls off his mask, already feeling a big dumb grin spreading across his face — until he looks across the table, and the grin falls away as his mouth drops open.

This guy’s eyes are familiar — golden, expertly made up. His pudgy cheeks belie his high cheekbones, and the coquettish, self-assured look on his face rings one too many bells. No. No no no no. He has not spent the last hour getting hot and bothered over Magnus Bane, serial flirt, general pain in Alec’s ass, and half of the warlock civil suit that’s currently driving him insane.

“Well,” says Magnus as Alec gapes, “I must say that wasn’t quite the response I was hoping for.”

“No!” says Alec, categorically unable to process this. “I know you! You’re — you’re —”

“Thin?” supplies Magnus. “Slender? Trim? The masculine ideal? A South Asian Adonis?”

“Yes!” says Alec helplessly. “Why are you even at Lorenzo’s if you’re in a fucking lawsuit against him? Wait, is this a disguise? Is that it? What the fuck, Magnus?”

Magnus, to his credit, looks only marginally fazed by all of Alec’s to-do. “No, darling,” he drawls, drawing a hand down the wide, lush expanse of his middle. “Not quite, at least. This isn’t the disguise. But the body you’re familiar with? That’s camouflage, Alexander. Look around. Do you see anyone at this party who looks like me? Do you think any of them would take me seriously in this body? For the ones charged with stewarding the supernatural world, Nephilim have a list of prejudices as long as both of your legs.”

Alec goes quiet. 

“And yes,” Magnus goes on, “I am, at present, legally entangled with Lorenzo Rey. However, that doesn’t mean I’m going to miss out on the chance to sneer at his decor and enjoy his bonnes bouches and champagne. Et voilà: in this body, he’d never guess.” He gives a theatrical shrug and fixes Alec with a coy, catlike gaze. “What can I say, I’m a petty creature. Still want to kiss me?”

And the thing is that Alec does. Maybe he could stand to learn a thing or two from the Downworld about how shortsighted the Nephilim can be, and maybe he’d better also do some soul searching about whether he’s got some newfound preferences or if he’s been repressing these like he’s been repressing everything else. 

“On one condition,” he says, and Magnus lifts a perfectly arched eyebrow.

“Yes, darling?”

“Let’s get out of here,” he says, giving Magnus a hand up and going a little weak in the knees as Magnus rocks forward and levers himself up with a soft noise that Alec wishes he could play back again and again. “Let me at least buy you dinner first. It won’t be bone bush or whatever you said, but there’s a really good Italian place up near the Institute. Cloth napkins, everything. My treat. And the chairs don’t have arms, either. And, um.” He laces his fingers through Magnus’s, and Magnus steps closer, the heavy curve of his belly brushing the front of Alec’s suit. 

“Yes?”

Alec’s finding it a little hard to breathe. “I don’t want you to think that — you’re still, uh, — I think you’re still —”

Magnus waits. 

“I think you’re really hot like this,” Alec finishes. “Like, you look so good that you’re making it hard to talk. Or think. I don’t want you to think that I don’t think that about this body. I do. Like, I really, really do.”

Magnus cups Alec’s face in one hand, and he’s so close that Alec can feel the warmth radiating from him, the soft give of his body. “Alexander Lightwood, a romantic,” he purrs. “Who would have thought?”

“It’s my mystique,” says Alec, jamming his own mask back over his face and gesturing for Magnus to do the same. “Come on, before anyone realizes we’re gone.”

Magnus’s hand is snug around his as they spill out of the party. The sweet, soft air smells like hope.

[bucknastysbabe]

it's still me, sorry.

ancient rome with viserys III (he just has that twink senator build, I am telling ya)

YES TWINKY SELF IMPORTANT VIZZY III YOUR BRAIN MAKES MY GO SPLOOSH, also I took a while bc 1. Work 2. I get wayyyy too invested into research! So I hope you enjoy xoxoxoxxo

AU Bingo - Ancient Rome - Viserys III

Rating: Explicit

Tags: Imperial Rome setting, Viserys is an angry lil asshole, too much background building, aphrodisiacs, arranged marriage, pnv!sex, enemies to lovers, hate sex, they’re both bottoms they’ll figure it out later, background Jorah and Illyrio, dany living her best life!, orgy time, I hope that was a good offering to Cupid

A/N: Tumblr is full of smart people but I still marked stuff that might need a translation or explanation:)

Viserys Targaryen. The third. Bred well from a long line of Emperors. The dynasty had ended when his mad father was struck down by the Praetorian* guard meant to protect the man. He was a mere senator now, the Baratheon family forcing him into submission. Damnatio Memoriae* for Aerys and his eldest son Rhaegar.

Everyone knew you could flip a coin to decide if a Targaryen would be mad or not. Viserys, although smart and a respected senator, definitely leant towards the unwanted side of the sestertius*. Regardless, the man had enough allies to secure his position in aedileship* and keep the family estate. His little sister had been married off to some obscenely rich warlord king outside of Roman lines, further padding the man’s pockets.

He walked around like an inflated peacock with his purple striped toga, dreaming of revenge and retaking the grand palace. Not married, still young, and quite mean from all accounts. Rumors flew that he was the passive cinaedus* of his longtime Gaulish slave. But you had your eyes on the fool regardless of who said what.

Recently arrived from the ever growing Hispania Baetica*, your father, a powerful proconsul* had sent you with a retainer to find a husband. Your aunt was married to Rhaegar Targaryen, and there was a promise for your hand to Viserys.

There was a catch. Viserys was not made aware of this pact. All of the details ands plans were burnt up during the violent overthrow of mad Aerys. Greek fire everywhere from the accounts. Your sister and her babes had perished from the Lion of Rome’s horrid beast of a soldier.

Elia was gone now, you reminded yourself. Oberyn kept her memory alive much too much but you grinned and bared it. He accompanied you with his lover and only two of his many bastards. Viserys was to be hosting you all in his grand manse upon the Esquiline Hill*. He knew the power of your family and sought to gain more status.

A plethora of slaves tended to your baggage and personal goods. A fat man with a thick accent, Thracian* of sorts, welcomed you all with an ecstatic smile. “Good evening, I know you all must be weary from your travels, our busy Senator will be home late tonight and plans to sup in the morning. Please call me Illyrio, I am the steward here.”

He outstretched a jiggly arm and beckoned you all, “Come, come, dinner awaits.” Oberyn sniffed and sauntered in, viper eyes darting around suspiciously. He had become quite bitter and distrustful after dear Elia’s death. Rhaegar, a wonderful general, had found some Briton barbarian’s daughter while putting down an uprising and squirreled her away. Much to the anger of the Novantae*.

Robert Baratheon also took offense to the affair, having eyes for the same girl. Add on Aery’s madness and rising tensions against the imperial family. Well. That’s what led to now. It’s bad when the Roman army has to enter Rome. Slimy Lion of Lannister, Tywin, a once trusted Consul* and general settled the fighting quite quick. His son, a Praetorian guard, struck down the Mad Emperor.

You shook yourself out of your thoughts, weary from all the travel. Dinner and chatting was a blur, Oberyn interrogating Illyrio up quite intensely about Viserys. You retired early to a sumptuous room, dreaming of frolicking in the paintings until slumber met you at last.

In the morning you had two girls attend your bathing, dressing, and other attending. You felt quite beautiful in your immaculate yellow stola, embroidered with gold. Your headband and jewelry was also gold and citrine. They smudged your eyes with kohl, painted your lips a darker color with berries. All to hopefully ensnare.

Padding to the triclinium* you readied yourself. Being a proconsul’s daughter, you knew how to behave. Hispania Baetica was extremely romanized, it wasn’t like you came from Judaea* or Asia Minor*. Your family was mostly seated, Oberyn and Ellaria looked tired. They may have treated themselves to the pleasure of Rome last night.

Illyrio beside a big man in armor and the distinct silver haired of a Targaryen graced your vision. Viserys was quite handsome, lengthy waves, strong features, and long limbs. No warrior like Rhaegar but self assured in his own right. You gave obeisance and sat down. Viserys intense lilac eyes bored into you, pretty lips curling up in pleasure.

He hummed, “Martells. You have been good to the Targaryens for many a moon. I hope the trip was fair, nice to see you Oberyn. I hope Doran is doing well.” The senator’s smile was stiff lipped and frigid.

Oberyn snorted, “The place smells of pig shit and is overcrowded. But a fine city I suppose. The streets of pleasure are wondrous. How is the usurper doing?”

An awkward hush enveloped the room. Viserys’ eye seemed to twitch. His pallid cheeks reddened, “The fat oaf is fine. The Lion does his dealings after the Arryn man passed.” Oberyn hissed, “Detestable fucker.”

You cleared your throat and gestured to Illyrio, softly stating, “I’d love to reminisce on the injustice of our past but we did not travel to Roma for nothing, Senator.” Viserys seemed a relax a smidgeon, eyes narrowing at Illyrio’s wide frame. He drawled, “Was there something not to my knowledge? As the leader of my family this could be treason.”

The big man placed a hand on his sword.

Illyrio laughed it off and boomed, “No, this is all good tidings. A proposal lost in the fire.”

“Go ahead, Mopatis.”

You nervously popped some grapes into your mouth, eyeing the silver haired man’s heady gaze. He was entranced— for what gain you did not know. Illyrio opened the scroll and read of the marriage pact hastily made after the downfall. You would marry and join Viserys’ household.

The Senator remained quiet, the guard muttering something along the lines of, “That’s a first.” Viserys finally hummed, “What will I receive if I am to marry your girl? Gold, allies, men? I will become Emperor again dear Martells. You burn with the same injustices!” A vein on his forehead twitched.

Oberyn bristled, “You will receive a handsome sum and my gorgeous niece. Have patience, little Targaryen, lest the people might think you’re madder than your father,” he sharply grinned, “Excuse me, the emperor before Robert. Damnatio memoriae is a bitch, hm?”

Viserys barked, “Quiet your tongue, red viper! I accept the girl, shall pay the dowry, but I need allegiance. My sister awaits with her warlord husband, powerful screamers on horseback.”

Oberyn settled back down with a shit-eating grin, placing his sandals on the table, throwing an arm around Ellaria. You nodded and added, “All good things come with time, Aedile Targaryen. We shall plan, and I will do anything in my power to asssist.”

He was quaking with anger, long and thin fingers almost shredding the purple edging of his toga. Illyrio hummed, “Very well, we shall have the wedding, small, and pay the dowry. Then you may return to Hispania.”

Oberyn stated, “My daughter Obara stays as her personal guard, then we shall leave in the morn.” Viserys glared at the strong woman, lips thinning in annoyance. You glanced down at your hands, quite unsure what to do with an unstable temperament.

You’d find a way, always had. Nothing cunt couldn’t fix. Unless the Senator didn’t prefer that. But that could be arranged too.

After the wedding, you felt alone and bored. Viserys had held intercourse with you once, a banal affair. Strange for a Roman, a Targaryen one at that. Obara and Jorah as you learned, were mainly your company out and about. Viserys spent most of his time on the Capitoline Hill*. Planning events and city works, whatever Aedile’s did.

One day you’d had enough. You decided to snoop around Visery’s personal quarters, he’d be in hearings all day. Illyrio turned a blind eye with a small smile. Coming to a bronzed desk you found a half-unrolled paper. Wonderfully decorated with Pan and his nymphs.

Fingering the scroll open your eyebrows raised. It was an invitation. Tomorrow night. To a secret party with masks only. It was likely to be an orgy once you placed the masks, Pan’s* turgid cock, and the syrupy invitation. Your fool husband wasn’t going to even let you know.

“Illyrio!,” you hollered.

Heavy footsteps and breathing came closer and closer. Mopatis wiped the sweat from his brow. He panted, “My lady?” Padding over to the large man you shoved the invitation toward pudgy hands.

“Was my dear husband planning on inviting me?”

He stared at you with a strange expression, mouth twitching. You held his gaze before he broke. “No. He was to go alone. Felt stifled recently.”

You snarled, snatching the invitation back, Mopatis now leaning on a doorway. You murmured, “Say Illyrio, dear steward, could you perhaps get me into this sordid soirée?” His fleshy face erupted into a smile.

“I have friends in the lowest and highest of places, I’m sure we could arrange your arrival. A surprise for your husband. I’ll have to send one of the girls to the mask maker.” Patting a shoulder you mused, “Hmm, I cannot wait to see the look on the asshole’s face.”

Jorah snorted from afar.

You gained entrance into a vast complex of gardens and smokey rooms, smelling of herbs. Petals littered the ground at every turn. You fixed your mask and stola, quite lost. You’d heard of these debauchery laden gatherings high up in the echelons of Rome.

It wasn’t like that in your household, definitely in Oberyn’s with all the boys and women he could fuck until dawn. A man with a deep voice sidled next to you, offering a goblet of wine, “Here sweet one, this brew will make Cupid himself bless you.” You took it and asked, “Where is the main gathering?”

“Follow me nymphet,” he hummed.

You downed the wine, unsure if that was a horrid idea or not. But Jorah was waiting on the outskirts in case you may need help. Citizens of Roma were fucking and kissing all over as you drew near the sounds of wailing and drums. The mysterious man hummed, “This is where the show is, where you find your lovers for the night.”

He disappeared as fast as he had met you. Eyes scanning through the fog you spotted silvery hair. Viserys was sprawled with some ladies, idly watching the erotic show on the dais. Sucking in a breath you sat on some cushions directly across from him.

Heat began to slither up your belly, the haze and glistening skin of the erotic dancers making your cunt ache. Pulling at your stola you stifled a whine, chewing on your lip under the mask. It must have been that brew that man gave you, some sort of Aphrodisiac. Venus herself must have dipped her tits in the brew, you were on fire.

Transfixed in the low hum of the droning singers, the sensual beating of the drums and the escalating cries of pleasure— you were not prepared for a rather smug voice in your ear. Yelping and sliding away, long fingers wrapped around your upper arm, jerking you close. Viserys lilac eyes were a bit hazy as he murmured, “You aren’t secretive you know that? Thinking I don’t know that you’re going through my belongings, sending my steward around.”

As his thin face began to erupt into a sinister smile you grew a bit fearful. Maybe you’d crossed the line. Targaryen’s were notoriously unpredictable. You gulped out a weak, “I apologize, maritus*, I do, please!” Viserys only smiled more and pulled you flush atop his thin hips.

“I’d prefer dominus*, my sly little Baetican,” he drawled, dragging fingertips across your overheated skin. Nosing along your slick neck he continued, “Almost as slithering as that viper of your uncle,” his soft curls tickling you issued a full body shudder and whimper.

“Dominus, I simply wished to- ah- find out what pleases you! You show me no attention,” you wheedled, overwhelmed with groping hands and wandering lips. Viserys cruelly mocked, “Dear, you were a pact, a bag of sesterces, a pretty little something that makes me look good when I get my birthright back.”

Anger seized through your veins at his callous words, shoving him off with a hiss. Viserys smug look turned to shock as he called, “I wasn’t done yet! Come back here!” You shook your head and stumbled through the clouds of burning incense, past the degenerates contorted and fucking, howling to Lūna.*

Slinking through to doors, not to make any noise, you arrived on a much quieter plaza of sorts. A fountain, some beautiful columns, and a small worship temple. Probably Venus. You ran toward the temple, seeking to hide from your vile husband.

Inside everything was painted a rosy, gorgeous color. A statue of Cupid* surrounded by candles and offerings sat at the head. You decided to sit against the wall, staring at the little cherub from the side. You filtered through your robes to throw a coin at the shrine. No one had shrines to the son of Venus*. That you knew until now.

“Strike him, will you,” you asked out loud.

Viserys. What a wretched ass. You knew this was a pact. He showed desire but nothing else. Doomed to a loveless marriage with a power-hungry maniac. You wanted to make him cry, make him hurt like you were. Throwing your mask off your hands clenched into balls of fury. Then took a deep breath, holding the tears back.

“I said I wasn’t done, now you ran off to weep?,” Viserys snapped as he entered the shrine. You stared at him coldly and replied, “No, I didn’t want to hear your vile words. I’m sure you had some great insults coming up, dominus.”

The blonde scoffed and leaned against a pink column, crossing his sinewy arms. He drawled, “Whatever, I was going to say, that you have proven yourself to be strong and dedicated. I like that. Ask me next time and I’ll take you along to my affairs.”

You crawled forward on all fours, holding his piercing gaze until you sat back in front of cherubic Cupid. Gesturing to the god you said, “I’m glad then, I have your approval dominus. Now fuck me. Prove it. Prove your power over me.”

Viserys sputtered for a second, pale cheeks blotchy. His cock was hard enough you could see it through the layers of his toga. You needed this, didn’t care if it was the Minotaur of days of old fucking you open. Anger and lust coursed in your veins, the drink wracking your system.

He mumbled under his breath and padded over to shut the doors to the shrine. Just leaving you two and marble Cupid. He knelt down in front of you, looking composed but sweat beaded along the high points of his face. You leaned back, revealing your legs and bare cunt, pulling and undoing your stola*.

Viserys sat like a dolt. Obviously he did not have the upper hand in this situation, Face getting redder and redder. You purred, “Dominus, or should I say, Caesar?” The blonde moaned softly, trembling hands undoing his expensive garments marking the man’s station. You were naked and waiting, smirking to yourself. Viserys, now just as bare didn’t move.

“How do you want me Caesar?,” you hummed with a cock of your head. Visery’s swollen prick could rival Priapus* currently, leaking and red. He rasped thinly, lips agape, “Ride me, ride me, hispanus.” Stifling a laugh at the suddenly submissive acting senator you prowled forward like a tigress, placing your jeweled hand on his pale chest, pushing the man back.

Straddling yourself across lean thighs you rolled your slick pussy across his length, moaning lowly in satisfaction. Big hands clamped down on your thighs, a strangled noise leaving Viserys’ throat. Suspiciously close to a whine.

You leaned forward to press your tits against his flat chest, breathing against his pink lips, “Caesar, why are you bowing to such a simple whore him? One from Hispania, probably not even a citizen. Tsk tsk” Viserys thrashed some, face pouty. His free hand clamped down on your neck as the blonde hissed, “This is no time to jest, your Caesar wants you to ride his cock. Get to it.”

He wouldn’t let go until you heaved for a breath, sliding onto his long cock, the protrusion deep and nestled on your sensitive upper walls. He let go, hands now groping your breasts, that irritating look back on his face. You coughed wetly, sucking in breath as you clumsily began the first few thrusts, but it felt wonderfully divine.

Your pussy, lips, and nipples were hypersensitive and swollen, sending sparks of ecstasy shooting off over your body. You rode harder, seeking more and more. Viserys gasped, “Gods, fuck, you’re different tonight.” Slapping him across the cheek while simultaneously squeezing his turgid length made the made shout, eyes fluttering.

“I may be your, hng ohhh, wife, b-but I can be your equal! Fah-fucking lackwit! Jaehaerys and Alysanne ring a godsdamned bell?” Your cunt grew slicker and slicker with your arousal, sweat rolling down your back, between your bouncing tits. The small shrine was growing warmer, the sounds of fucking echoing in the small temple.

Viserys mewled hungrily around your chest as you reached back to grab his overfull balls, squeezing ever-so gently. His eyes flashed open, mouth opening and body arching as he cried your name passionately. He managed to string together a broken sentence, “I- Ifffff- you beast, keep it up, ah Cupid you little shit! I will rethink my behavior!”

You plastered yourself to the man, luridly slapping your plush hips against him, moaning uncontrollably. Viserys was right along with you in pitch, desperately jerking his wonderful cock into your needy cunt. Sloppy sharing lips you growled, “Good boy.”

Your foggy mind expected another bout of anger.

No. Viserys outright whimpered and seized your lips, skinny arms holding tight as he planted his feet and pounded your cunt. He licked into your mouth, tongues dancing together in a style much older than Rome ever was. The senator caressed and sought to drive himself into you, besides his cock of course.

Pulling free from slobbery lips you rasped, “You like that? Dominus just wants to be my good boy? Ah-ct like one and I’ll give you ah-ah-alll the praise you want oh pretty silver!” He nodded fervently, lilac eyes searching your own, whimpering unintelligibly.

His blunt cock head was massaging your most tender spot, driving you to grab Viserys hand and guide it to your swollen Pearl. He picked up easily, eyes lidded with heavy satisfaction at your carrying on. You began to shake, the pleasure heightening to the realm of the gods.

“Ah! Caesar, Viserys, Dominus! I’m gonna,” you convulsed and crumpled atop of him whining when your clit was rudely pinched. Another one wracked your frame when a flood of hot spend filled your warm cunt. You babbled deliriously in your own dialect, Viserys panting and heaving through his heavy unload.

Flattened atop of him now you warily eyed Cupid, little cheeks puffed as he smiled. With a scoff and a residual tremble you said, “I did pray he would strike us. Not sure if it’s love, but I felt the lust.”

Viserys hummed gently, carding fingers through your sweaty curls, “He might have mad contact, I would kill any other woman this brash. Take that as a compliment, you are quite special my baetican vipera.”

“I’ll take it. Do you think our fucking was a good enough offer?”

He barked a laugh, stealing your lips for a peck, “Very much so. We should built a shrine in the manse.”

Translations/Explanations:

* Praetorian Guard: Guard of the Imperial family, Caesar, and special agents

* Sesterce: Roman Coin 1/4 of a denarius

* Denarius: silver coin

* Aedile/Aedileship: Senator of public office, Job that involved maintenance of Public buildings in shape and regulation of public festivals. Also keeping city life in order and that needs are met.

* Cinaedus: Male willing to be the passive partner in a homosexual relationship

* Hispania Baetica: Third province of Spain. Rich and romanized, they are citizens of Rome. Eventually brought up now named cities of Cádiz, Seville, Cordoba.

* Pro-consul: Governor or military commander of a province

* Esquiline hill: One of the seven hills of Rome. A upper class residential district.

* Thrace/Thracian: Area of people spanning between Bulgaria, Greece, and Turkey.

* Briton: Roman conquered England

* Novantae: powerful Celtic tribe in the north of Briton.

* Consul: Highest senate position, has the emperors ear

* Triclinium: a dining room with couches on three sides and a table.

* Capitoline Hill: Name says all they be doing government shit up there

* Pan: Greek name for a forest god with nymphs. A horny goat okay

* Cupid: God of lust/love, son of Venus

* Maritus: Husband

* Dominus: Lord, master, owner

* Caesar: Emperor

* Venus: goddess of beauty and love

* Stola: Women’s dress at the time, feminine version of the toga

* Priapus: Fertiliy protection god known for his HUGE DONG

* Hispanus: From Hispania

[opencommunion]

"Kerem Avraham began as a small British colony founded in 1855 by the highly influential British Consul in Jerusalem, James Finn, and his wife, Elizabeth Anne Finn, who was the daughter of a noted English Hebrew scholar and herself spoke Hebrew. ... James Finn combined biblical 'restorationist' Christian thinking and missionary activities with official British civil service. He and his wife Elizabeth were originally members of the London Society for Promoting Christianity Amongst the Jews. Also crucially, he was also a close associate of Anthony Ashley Cooper, 7th Earl of Shaftesbury, a prominent Tory MP, a social reformer, a millennialist Christian and a key contributor to Victorian Christian Zionism and back-to-the-Bible revivalism. Shaftesbury was driven by Victorian imperialism and Christian messianic prophecy. He argued that 'Jewish restorationism' to Palestine would bring political and economic advantages to the British Empire and as a biblical prophecy would expedite the second coming of Jesus. In an article in the Quarterly Review (January 1839) Shaftesbury, who invented the myth 'A land without people, for a people without a land,' wrote:

The soil and climate of Palestine are singularly adapted to the growth of produce required for the exigencies of Great Britain; the finest cotton may be obtained in almost unlimited abundance; silk and madder are the staple of the country, and olive oil is now, as it ever was, the very fatness of the land. Capital and skill are alone required: the presence of a British officer, and the increased security of property which his presence will confer, may invite them from these islands to the cultivation of Palestine; and the Jews, who will betake themselves to agriculture in no other land, having found, in the English consul [James Finn], a mediator between their people and the [Ottoman] Pacha, will probably return in yet greater numbers, and become once more the husbandmen of Judaea and Galilee.

With the support of foreign secretary Lord Palmerston, Shaftesbury began promoting Jewish restorationism in Victorian England in the 1830s. Shaftesbury was also instrumental in the setting up of the British Consulate in Jerusalem in 1939. The public activities of Shaftesbury, James Finn and their English 'restorationist' followers—which preceded the founding of the European political Zionist movement by Theodor Herzl by nearly half a century—demonstrate clearly that 'Zionism' began as a distinctly Christian Protestant movement, not a Jewish one."

Nur Masalha, The Zionist Bible: Biblical Precedent, Colonialism and the Erasure of Memory (2013)

[armagnac-army]

This is what you do instead of working? (Not mad just disappointed)

Anyway, does the uniform of the first consul make me look fat?

Also what uniform should I wear next time we “discuss tactics” ? (BE HAPPY IM EVEN TALKING TO YOU AFTER THE PORTUGAL DISASTER)

//Your Emperor

SIRE

BRO

BOSS

IM ANSWERING CORRESPONDANCE! THIS IS PARTOF THE JOB! YOU CANT BE DISAPOINTED IF I AM DOING THE JOB COME ON NOW IVE BEEN YOUR BESTIE FOR AGES AND IVE DONE SO MUCH FOR YOU LIKE MONETBELLO OR YOU KNOW FUCKING PORTUGAL YOUR WELCOME FOR GETTING THAT PEACER TREATY I WAS SO FUCKIGIN GOOD AT DIPLOMACY BUT DONT MAKE ME DO THAT SHIT AGAIN

BUT ANYWAY RED IS A GREAT COLOUR ON YOU

AND YOU SHOULD WARE THAT

TO OUR NEXT TACTICADL MEETING

;]

[josefavomjaaga]

Hello! What was Eugene and Hortense’s relationship with Napoleon like? Sometimes Naps seems to give off a bit of “evil stepparent” vibes yet sometimes he seems to be decent so I can only imagine that it’s complicated (I would know, I have stepparents).

And full of dysfunctional family drama, naturally!

(Someone should make a Napoleonic soap opera.)

Anyway, thanks in advance!

P. S.

Thank you so very much, both for the question and the love - and right back at you 💖. I know I've really taken my time with this one but I wanted to find the correct quote which took longer than I thought. (I had no clue Roederer wrote so much.)

First of all: No, Napoleon is not the prodigal evil stepfather, far from it. On first glance, he even seems like the ideal stepfather, immediately taking to the two children, for the sole reason that they were related to Josephine, and despite the children’s initial animosity against this new addition to the family. Hortense in particular makes it very clear in her memoirs that she feared her mother would love them less once she had a new husband, whereas Eugène saw his mother’s second marriage as »a desecration of my father’s memory«. Both are probably very normal and common reactions; I particularly understand the kids’ fear of having to share their mother’s butterfly attention with yet another person. (Josephine often barely remembered them anyway.)

It is also unclear to me how well they actually knew this general Bonaparte before he and Josephine married. The story of Eugène and the sword/sabre of general Beauharnais is well-known, and Hortense in her memoirs tells the story of how she, at a dinner in Barras’ house, was sitting between Josephine and Napoleon, who totally ignored her, talking only with her mother. Other than that, Napoleon must have visited often, but most of the time the kids would have been at school at those occasions. And they apparently only learned about their mothers’ second marriage after the fact, through Madame Campan, who informed them of it. At the time of their mother’s marriage, this general may have been mostly a stranger to them, and in a way, he may have always remained just that.

But Napoleon made every effort to overcome the children’s reserve, and he mostly succeeded. Both children were docile and well-behaved as a rule und would, if not enthusiastically, then at least politely adapt to these new circumstances. Which for Napoleon may have been a nice change compared to dealing with his unruly family, who was giving him hell for having dared to marry without anyone’s consent. During the first Italian campaign, in his letters to Josephine, Napoleon mentions several times that her children had written to him or that he was going to send them presents. (He could not know that at least Hortense, according to her memoirs, had been coerced by Madame Campan into writing. I believe we even have Napoleon’s answer, which is held in a very amused, teasing tone.)

Things would continue in the same vein. We have Napoleon’s letters to Eugène in Egypt (»Stay in the tent, march with the artillery … don’t you dare get yourself killed, kid!«), we have Napoleon discussing Josephine’s supposed infidelities with her teenage son (Eugène probably: »Uhm, general … you do remember that I’m only seventeen? And your wife’s son? You do? Good. Just making sure.«), we have the famous scene of Josephine and her kids, begging on their knees in front of Napoleon’s bedroom door after the return from Egypt and, in one version, Napoleon explaining that he took Josephine back because he had grown so attached to Eugène that he could not bear to see the boy leave. (Though it is doubtful how much of this scene was even meant in earnest, or how Napoleon could have expected Eugène to stay with him rather than with his mother.) We have delightfully normal and funny family correspondence during the Consulate and the early Empire (»Your fat son has arrived yesterday«, »I don’t hear more of Hortense as if she were in Congo, I have to write and scold her«, »your brother is courting all the ladies of Boulogne and still not getting lucky«), and after Eugène’s marriage Napoleon resolutely demands updates on eventual first marital squabbles and even tries to set up Eugène’s daily schedule in a way for him to get enough repose and quality time with the vice-queen.

As to the material and financial side, Napoleon could not have treated his stepchildren any better. Both received wealth, honours and positions they never could have dreamt of (and probably never would have dreamt of) without Napoleon’s influence. But that already takes us to the other side of the coin. At this point I always have to think of the sentence that Lannes once wrote in a letter, in essence: »The emperor loves on a whim, which means: when he has need of you.« - Napoleon’s stepchildren had a function in his political plans, and he loved them as long as they fulfilled their tasks. And once these plans changed and they became bothersome, he did not hesitate to demand back what he had given to them (Italy from Eugène, Holland from Hortense’s son).

But there is a caveat even to the emotional part. As I’ve often mentioned already, while Napoleon called his stepchildren »tu« in private conversation, he treated them as »vous« in court and in all his correspondence. As to the other side, even in their letters to each other or to their mother, Hortense and Eugène always call him »Bonaparte« or »the emperor«. I have not come across any of them calling him, or referring to him as, their father (which is why I hate such references in novels or movies). Eugène in his memoirs keeps mentioning the enormous respect he always had, and as late as the Russian campaign a witness like Dedem van de Geldern had the impression that Eugène »was afraid of the emperor like a child«. There seems to always have been a notable emotional distance between Napoleon and everybody else.

But I feel like the most obvious indication of how unhealthy this family relationship was can be found in Napoleon’s conversation with Roederer in 1804 (?, at least I think it happened during that time, while his family was trying to convince him to divorce Josephine before the coronation and to not make her empress – for which, admittedly, there were excellent reasons). Napoleon says, speaking of his brothers:

They are jealous of my wife, of Eugène, of Hortense, of everyone about me. Well, my wife has diamonds and debts, that is it. Eugène does not have 20,000 livres of income. I love these children, because they are always eager to please me. If there's a cannon shot, Eugene will be the one to find out what it is. If I have a ditch to cross, it's he who gives me his hand. […] [And again about his siblings] They say that my wife is dishonest, and that the eagerness of her children is calculated. Well, I do want this; they treat me like an old uncle; this always makes my life sweet; I am getting old: I am thirty-six, I want some rest.

[Taken from: Pierre-Louis Roederer, »Mémoires sur la Révolution, le Consulat et l’Empire, 5th edition, page 207f. Emphasis by me]

In other words, Napoleon agrees that the sentiments his wife and stepchildren show him are fake and most likely rooted solely in self-interest. He just doesn’t care. He does not claim »You are wrong, my stepchildren do love me.« His answer rather comes down to: »At least they make the effort to pretend they care for me. You guys can’t even be bothered to do that much!«

Which does not strike me as a particularly healthy basis for a family.

But as I’ve already said, I’m still very much learning, and I’m pretty sure there’s still much to find out about the details in this patchwork family.

I hope this does answer your question at least somewhat. Thank you once more for the Ask, and sorry the answer took so long! 💖

[omnipointmuses]

The First Soul

The first soul radiates a soft aura an is in the shape of a feline demi-human. As you get closer it recants it's tale.

I was Queen Xocolati's first husband, taken so she could assume the title and responsibilities without pushback from the noble class even though they sneered at my status as a now former slave. Despite my marriage being out of mere necessity I had little to complain about, though I did have fears about how my queen would see me but to my surprise she treated me as an equal and often sought my consul about how to properly run her kingdom, together we even outlawed and dismantled most of the slave trade within The Golden Desert region.

My end came when I retreated with her to our bedroom for the final time. Her touch was always softer than I was ever used to and she never crossed the limit I set, but slowly but surely I grew to find a certain comfort to be under her power, her expansive girth. Eventually I found myself pushing my way into her open maw, over her tongue that licked so tenderly as if to savor every taste of me. Eventually her mouth crested over my admittedly wide hips and by then I knew I was hers in body. Despite how vast her unsealed form was her stomach held me with a cozy embrace behind her thick wall of fat I once embraced. Even then I could faintly feel her, graciously patting her gut as if I was the best meal she's had in a long time and heard her voice assuring me that she would either let me out soon or could reform me later. I rejected both offers, I felt that this was right becoming completely one with her and after an agonizing moment she asked if I was sure, I was. So she obliged my desires, I have to admit that the idea of all safety nets were cut made my pulse pound and I selfishly gave into those impulses and pleasured myself against her walls, coaxing her into reaching down and squeezing her gut, squeezing me, milking me for everything I could offer until my form fell apart through the churning chyme, but still I didn't leave, I couldn't leave. I don't know if this was one purpose or if she was even away but when my soul fled my slurried form it could not escape the confines of her gut so instead I sank deeper and became one with it and thus she claimed me in spirit. I see the world through her eyes and await the day she seeks my consul again, and maybe I would experience her touch once more.

The shape vanishes in a plume of light and what remains is an urn atop a pillar made of sandstone along with a cube of resin that contained a pair of thongs. Below it there's a plaque that reads.

Here lies the First King of The Golden Sands Husband to Queen Xocolati Danos (Blank) Danos (First name lost to time.)

[corellianhounds]

Bar Talk

Media: Star Wars (Original Trilogy)

Rating: Gen

Word Count: 2,742

Warnings: None

Art Credit: Johannes Holm on ArtStation

Summary: Set sometime after the Battle of Endor, Luke and Lando talk shop and discuss the difficulties it takes to rebuild after the war.

Base XIV had few amenities but the makeshift cantina was a popular one. It was just out of the way enough to have the illusion of a hole-in-the-wall dive, and it provided several much-needed distractions after days spent training, conducting briefings and debriefings, managing inventory, and performing routine maintenance. The uprisings against Imperial outposts and institutions across the galaxy demanded the remaining rebels’ support and there was little time to celebrate before yet another sector needed their help.

Too often many of the leaders forgot the second half of the sentiment “Work hard, play hard,” though, so the cantina had to work a foot in the door before it became a semi-permanent fixture by virtue of the fact volunteers kept it up and running in what valuable free time they had to spare. By the time the fussier lieutenants’ complaints made it up the chain of command, the infantry folks had reallocated improvised construction materials for the outer shell, and by the time it got to the commander’s desk, Leia was seen leaving with Wes Janson and Lieutenant Verlaine, so deconstruction was deemed a moot point and the lieutenants’ complaints were dismissed.

Lando had made time to meet up with Luke on a rare night off to catch up and chew the fat. Consuls had no end of paperwork and planning to attend to between missions, but they’d each somehow found themselves in a lull where most projects were waiting on the decisions of others, so the cantina now hosted the two war generals in a corner of the bar, overlooked in the hustle and bustle of a busy night and granted the rare-found indulgence of anonymity.

Lando was having a Takadian Sunrise, a flavorful and aromatic cocktail made with tihaar. The salt-and-pepper captain from Mon Cala, Toren Qavis, brewed the tihaar himself as a hobby on the side, and since it appeared his background in chemistry translated well to distillation, he occasionally supplied Jhon the bartender with it. Due to the limited nature of housing and storage space, Lando had had to ignore his more naturally inquisitive nature regarding how Qavis was able to create such a steady flow of tihaar. There were rumored suspicions cast on the ugly little C2-R4 droid that trundled about doing odd jobs near Qavis’s rooms: the man was a notorious pack rat and the droid— advertised by its Skor II creators as having limitless functions— was always picking up organic and inorganic material equally. The less Lando thought about the C2-R4, the better he was able to enjoy the home-brewed spirits. Ignorance was indeed bliss.

Captain Qavis’s tihaar never tasted exactly the same. Each batch was brewed in small quantities which meant those who enjoyed quality control had to gamble on whether they’d be getting a flavor profile they liked, and those more adventurous were never for want of a new experience. The monotony and tedium of what it took to build bureaucratic infrastructure could wear people down just as quickly as the constant fighting did, so Lando didn’t mind a bit of mundane unpredictability amongst his new delegations, and he enjoyed visiting with his friend over a hand of pazaak and good humor. Those days were coming fewer and farther in between, though.

Luke was barely into his twenties but the enormity of his responsibilities and the expectations placed on him were starting to show on his youthful face. As he sat next to Lando at the bar, Lando could see the far away contemplative thoughts sitting behind his eyes— Luke had been carving a divot into the wooden bar top with his thumbnail as he and Lando breezed through the daily trough patter they both knew by rote.

Baron Calrissian was more accustomed to bureaucracy than the farm boy was. Despite his efforts spent scouring databases and archives for information and history on the Jedi, Luke’s time was demanded of in a number of areas as they established the New Republic, and the divided focus was frustrating him. Point the boy in one direction and give him a clear objective and he’d accomplish it with aplomb. Split his focus and tell him to figure out how to manage both his time and his people in a number of unfamiliar settings and you get a fledgling Jedi and consul member forgetting important meetings and snapping at dignitaries they needed support of. He and Han were similar in those respects, and between their own harried schedules Lando and Leia had had to make time to smooth over diplomatic relations Luke had inadvertently ruffled the feathers of.

When it came down to it, Luke was a hands-on guy more accustomed to solving physical problems than he was performing administration. Gifted pilot? Yes. Ingenious mechanic? Yes. Unparalleled martial artist and strategist? Of course.

Diplomat? Not so much.

“Plan on digging a trench all the way across?” Lando asked. “A router would take you less time.”

Luke shook his head, resting his knuckles on the bar top. He was three black ales in and didn’t seem fazed by them at all. Lando wondered if there was much else to do on a backwoods planet like the one Luke had come from besides shoot vermin, drift speeders, and knock back ‘shine with the old-timers when you weren’t doing manual labor. Lando had met several hicks whose hold on liquor rivaled Coruscanti ironworkers— Union men were a sturdy breed, and still they’d stagger from going shot-for-shot against a scrawny hayseed with a competitive streak. Luke wasn’t a big man and still he’d shown no signs of flagging under the stout black ale that must have made up a quantifiable percentage of his body weight by now.

“Sorry, Lando, my focus is shot today. Meditation only gets me so far on the weeks we’re moving bases.”

“I don’t blame you. I’m surprised it's in your schedule at all; haven’t you been taking ten-twelves?”

“Something like that,” Luke said wryly. “I get it in during airtime.”

“Seems to me like that’s still work.”

“Eh, flying’s methodical,” Luke shrugged. “That’s the work I like.”

“What’s the old man have to say about your multitasking?”

“Haven’t asked him.”

The two of them chuckled. Lando slid the untouched tray of Zuǒ chicken over next to Luke’s forearm.

“Those bags under your eyes may match your wardrobe, but they aren’t a good look on you,” Lando observed. “Tell Leia you need to take a retreat, go to Dagobah for a bit and get your head straight. You’ll feel better after.”

Luke shook his head. “No need. I’ve got some downtime during the refinery recon and the meetings later this week.”

“Recon isn’t downtime. What’s eating at you, kid?”

Luke studied the wood some more while the fried food settled to room temp beside him. The general din of the cantina stayed at a low hum, sentients squeezing past each other but somehow still skirting the alcove they’d commandeered.

“… You ever been expected to give a speech on something you’re told you’re supposed to be an expert in but you’ve only heard of by word-of-mouth? Like somebody’s asked you to play a song nobody knows or has recordings of?

Lando frowned. “Is this about the Jedi business?”

Luke continued like Lando hadn’t spoken. “I can’t find any original codices for the Order. The representatives from other systems in the charter keep asking questions I can’t explain. “Why does the Force protect some people but not others? If the Force connects every living thing, how can so much evil go undetected for so long? The Empire wouldn’t have had the reach it did if the emperor had been stopped long before he took over. Are the Jedi really meant to live cut off from everyone else, or is that why they failed on Coruscant in the first place?”

“… Heavy stuff.”

“You’re telling me,” Luke said. “I’m just one guy and I’m expected to have all the answers.”

“Kenobi not been much help?” Lando asked curiously.

Luke shrugged and dragged a hand down his face with a sigh. “He’s irritated with me for arguing the logistics every time we talk. I think there’s a point to people’s questions but he’s still teaching from the old rule book.” Here he turned to Lando. “I know he’s only teaching me what he knows, but if the Jedi believed in accepting change, why can’t he see that the way we study and live by the Force now has to change? How can you reconcile a life of non-attachment with the very thing that binds us together?”

“A rope and a net will both keep you from falling but one’s going to do it better than the other.”

Luke couldn’t help but laugh bitterly. “See? You get it. Maybe you should be the Jedi.”

“Pass.”

“Smart choice.”

Lando tapped his fingers on the bar in thought. As far as he was aware the rebuilding of the physical Order wasn’t expected to be underway so soon anyway. Luke was one of the most wanted men across the galaxies; they were all keeping low profiles for a reason. The sheer enormity and reach of the Empire’s stranglehold meant there were still millions of Imperials and Imperial sympathizers stationed across every sector. There was no shortage of people who wanted him dead. If he revealed too much or didn’t remain off the grid, diligently toiling away at finding resources and forming covert connections, he could put so much they had worked for— to say nothing of millions of lives depending on them— in jeopardy. To not even have council members believe the Jedi were necessary or worthy of rebuilding in the first place meant Luke was fighting against the tide every time he didn’t gain a delegate’s trust, let alone support.

But to hear Luke struggle with how he viewed the original tenets of the code reminded Lando of just how new all this was to him, too.

“What is it Kenobi and Yoda do all day if they’re not giving you immediate resources?”

Luke drained the rest of his glass and tapped the bar twice for Jhon to refill it. “I won’t say they haven’t been helpful, but they ask more questions than they answer mine.”

“To what end?”

Luke put his hands up in a gesture of “Your guess is as good as mine,” baffled and frustrated. “To stretch my critical thinking skills, I guess— But I don’t have time for that. I need actionable directions. Contemplation and self-reflection are selfish right now when what people need is immediate help. How can I find others if they won’t give me the tools?”

Lando mulled it over. He could see where Luke was coming from and sensed he had a point. Han had told him a fortnight back that he’d found Luke working out his frustrations in bay 4-9 stripping down an X-wing from canopy to keel, muttering something about philosophy and accountability. By the time he emerged he was sweaty and covered in grease, but no closer to whatever conclusion he’d been using the ship’s maintenance as a stand-in for because his stormy expression remained in place and he immediately started in on another ship.

Grains of sand could beget pearls over time, but if you flooded a shell with sand without jetting out the buildup all you’d get was a dead mollusk.

So Lando changed the subject.

“How do vaporators work?”

Luke snorted and gave him a sidelong look that implied Lando was asking a stupid question (which, in all fairness, was part of the point). He held up his glass, water running in rivulets down the sides.

“Same way this does,” he said. “Why? Plan to invest in stocks before the dry season?”

“Naw, nothing like that.” Lando didn’t take offense to Luke’s sarcasm. “I was born on Socorro but my family lived so far removed from farm life I didn’t know how most essentials got from farm to table. I didn’t stay there long enough to learn anyway. Didn’t interest me.”

“And now suddenly it does?”

“The base camp up in the mountains put in a request for on-site equipment to help sustain them so they don’t have to rely solely on supply lines,” Lando explained. It was a true enough statement, though Luke needn’t know that the issue hadn’t necessarily crossed Lando’s desk. “There’s budget and time constraints they don’t have time to quibble over, and the railways are in poor condition because of the rockslides.”

Luke’s barstool swiveled a little more loosely to his left as he tapped his gloved, mechanical hand on the bar. “Vaporator cores run refrigerant through the main shafts to keep them chilled; they collect condensation and funnel it down to a tank beneath the ground,” he said, picking up a bit of chicken and chewing around his words. “Tatooine gets up to forty-two degrees on average and the mists rise at suns-up— Most of the water is collected in that window of time, and the rest of the day your work is spent on repairs and withdrawal rotations. The base camp is already up on the leeward side of the mountains though— Fog nets would be more efficient and easier to maintain. Higher elevation, less even terrain, and the fog’s already there. It would cost more money and effort to bore out the rock to install vaporators than they’d be worth in the long run.”

Lando stroked his chin thoughtfully. “What would the number of man-hours for maintenance be, assuming they have the space to dedicate to them?”

“For the whole compound? Maybe thirty hours across a standard week. The nets take up less space and there’s nothing mechanical or electrical to maintain. You could get the bigger cisterns and spend half the time across two shifts doing all the work at once, but the more often they’re maintained the less likely they are to build up mold. It’s not worth putting it off if it means running the risk of the whole supply making everybody sick.”

“What about groundwater?”

“Larger cost upfront to install the equipment, more work to purify it,” Luke said, shaking his head. Lando waved the barkeep down for another basket of Zuǒ as he talked, making a point to take some himself so Luke could continue uninterrupted. He had a bit more color to his skin than before, and the haze of stress and alcohol was a little clearer with a problem in front of him he had enough experience to solve in his sleep.

“Everyone can be cross-trained on nets, that way you can sub people in when needed. A specialized crew may sound more appealing but if they’re all waylaid or too many people are taken out you won’t have anyone to harvest a supply at all. You’ll need a foreman to track down screw-ups if you rotate schedules, though. Or you can give that job to a droid.”

“Any downsides to having droids do all of it?” Lando asked.

“… Droids just can’t get the taste right,” Luke said. “They’re good at filtering and testing for problems, and the water would technically be fine, but at the end of the day you need someone who’s going to care about more than just utility.”

The conversation reached a natural lull, and Lando didn’t feel the need to add anything else. He had what he needed.

Luke scrubbed at his face, sitting back in the stool and contemplating the condensation building up on the glass. “Seems all I’m good for some days is everything except restoring a creed. At least there’ll always be farming.”

Lando thought back to Qavis and the C2-R4, the cantina bartender and the makeshift pub carved into a quarry. He stood from his chair and dropped some credits on the bar before he put a hand on Luke’s shoulder and hoped it conveyed the reassurance he didn’t know how else to give.

“Don’t be too hard on yourself, Luke. There’s a lot you’ve got to contend with on your own, but you’ve got us to help with everything else.”

“… Ben thinks I can rebuild an entire order single-handedly,” Luke muttered sardonically. “But it feels like all I’ve gotten from him are criticisms and pushback.”

Lando shrugged. “If Kenobi didn’t want you in charge, he shouldn’t have left.”

Luke finally cracked a grin, the first Lando had seen in a long time.

“Besides,” Lando reasoned, “Seems to me like you’re already used to making something out of nothing.”

—

Notes:

Tihaar is a strong, clear spirit distilled from fruit. The inspiration for this specific home brew is taken from San Miguel beer in the Philippines circa 1980. Brewed in small batches, no two beers ever tasted the same. An older friend of mine said that during his stint overseas he was never happier than when he had a San Miguel beer in one hand and roasted monkey on a stick in the other.

Here is a link to a post I made about the C2-RV droids.

What Lando says to Luke about Kenobi is something my dad once said at a funeral. He was talking to his aunt (my great-aunt) at the last of her brother’s funerals, and she said in her normal matter-of-fact tone “Welp, I’m the last one. Guess I can raise all sorts of hell now.” To which my dad said “Well if they didn’t want you in charge, they shouldn’t have left!”

[howtodrawyourdragon]

Alvin tries to warn the Fat Consul about Hiccup, but he doesn't listen.

[lingerxng]

it took a week and a half after she had finished moving for mr. hat to come visit her.

amruta had expected sooner, actually, but she supposed that he had some matter of decorum. when he called to visit, she brought him in, sat him down, poured him tea as though he were any other guest. she only wondered how long it would take until he got to business.

"you keep a fine home, madame edwards," he said, nearly a wheeze; how the man had lived to be this old was beyond her. she'd known his reputation from when she had lived across the river. ruthlessness was the only explanation.

she set her teacup in the saucer, turning it so the handle was offset just so. "thank you, mr. hat," she said, politeness bordering on icy. she did not want him to be here, though she would not throw him out.

"and by yourself, no less," he added, tilting his head. "i am sorry to hear about your loss, and all the mess with--"

"i prefer not to speak on it," she cut him off. "what's done is done. i cannot change the past, only hope to move forward. that is why i moved here, after all." she smiled, though there was no warmth. "new district. new life."

"ah, yes..." he smiled back, then paused, coughing into the handkerchief he'd pulled out at the start of the conversation. amruta resisted the urge to wrinkle her nose. "about that..."

"oh, please, mr. hat. you didn't need to bring a housewarming gift, though i am flattered."

"eh? what?" he was caught off guard. "no, i--"

"mr. hat, you are a generous man, but i assure you, i have everything i need at hand." she smiled, more genuine this time as she wrested control of the situation. "i was very skilled at my time, working with my husband. i will be able to sufficiently care for myself, you won't see me asking for handouts."

"that is what i came to discuss, madam--"

"my previous position?" she tilted her head. "well, i'm not in that line of work anymore, but i'd be happy to give a consultation."

"a consul--"

"five hundred and eighty seven coin." the clink of china was nearly deafening in the sudden silence.

he stared at her, eyes watery, breathing harder as he got worked up. "i beg your pardon?" he demanded.

"five hundred and eighty seven coin," she repeated calmly. she set the cup and saucer on the table, then folded her hands on her lap. "you said you were looking for a consultation. i'm assuming you came here looking for such after receiving news of ill health, and were looking to leave something to... do you have family, mr. hat? children?"

"what are you talking about, woman?"

"i am discussing your worth, mr. hat. after you die, what i would be able to sell your body for." amruta tilted her head innocently. "not altogether, of course, you're much more valuable in pieces. your fat, what little of it remains, drained and formed into candles. your blood used for salve. your bones ground into a fortifying powder. lungs, liver-- it would all go to a good cause, of course. you'd be aiding poor souls who were looking for healing, and you'd be leaving a generous sum for your family after your death."

he sputtered, then stood suddenly. "that's witchcraft," he spat, staring daggers at her.

"witchcraft?" she laughed, standing herself. he was taller than her by no small amount, but he still took a step back, hitting the chair she had provided him. "no, mr. hat. the abbey cleared me of all accusations, didn't you read? i provided a healthcare service. no magic involved."

"you-- i--"

"yes, mr. hat?" she waited a pause, then sat back down, picking up her tea. "it's a shame your men couldn't come in and join us," she said, idly stirring her spoon, watching the leaves swirl. "i would have loved to offered my services to them, as well. alas."

she smiled up at him. "it looks as though you are on your way out," she said, noting how he stood. "a shame. i would have loved to discuss further, but i understand, you have business to attend, and you wouldn't take up the time of a poor widow." she sipped from the teacup delicately. "i assume you know your way back to the door."

he stared down at her once more, then made a noise of aggravation, moving towards her front door. "i'm glad we could reach an understanding," she called after him. "do come and visit anytime, mr. hat."

the door slam shook her windows, but she still smiled.

[hellcab]

{{ Honestly, if I ever make an overlord oc ( which I will. promise. ) it’ll either be the fucking skeleton overlord. Whose just a fucking skeleton. Or, some fat bastard roman consul who owns Hell’s wine production. All he wants to do is drink wine, have fun and occasionally have gladiatorial matches. Other than that, he’s a pretty swell guy. }}

[aaronburrdaily]

October 23, 1809

Copenhagen, October 23, 1809. No theatre was opened last evening, nor was there any public amusement. After strolling an hour, during which mus. mauv.; 1 d.¹ came home; took tea as my supper; engaged a servant at 3 marks a day; not, however, to attend me exclusively. LI. de ch. gro. pas mauv. mus. encore.² My room, a very large and elegant one on the first floor, looks into the square, and it is again my good fortune to have a military parade and band of music under my window in the morning. After breakfast sent cards to Olsen, formerly minister plenipotentiary from this government to the United States, and to Nailsen, formerly judge in Santa Cruz, who passed some time in New York on his way home. Both were abroad. Olsen at some distance at a country seat. Sent also Baron d'Albedÿhll's letter to M. de Coningk, conseiller d'etat³ with card. Hearing that G. Jay, American consul for Rotterdam, lodged in this house, sent my name by a servant. Walked about town an hour or two. It is regularly laid out on a plain. The harbour artificial. Very few vessels. Houses almost universally of brick, but generally made white or stone-coloured. Had a bowl of soup, with a bottle of Rhenish wine, in my room for dinner. In the afternoon took a servant to pilot me to the Observatory. The height is said to be 160 feet, placed nearly in the center of the town, and affords a most perfect bird's-eye view of the whole, with a prospect of the ocean; a fine landscape in the interior; the Palace of Fredericksberg, finely placed on an eminence. The Swedish coast. The ascent to the top is singular; not by steps, but an inclined spiral plane, paved with brick. It is said that a former King drove up with a coach and four, which is very practicable till you come within about ten feet of the summit, where you have steps, but how he got back is not said, for it is utterly impossible to turn. Paid 1 mark, and one more to my conductor. Home and alone the evening. La flick⁴ later.

1 For muse mauvaise; 1 dollar. Bad muse; 1 dollar. 2 For Fille de chambre; grosse, pas mauvaise. Muse encore. The chambermaid, fat, not bad; muse again. 3 State Councilor. 4 For la flicka. French and Swedish. The lass.

[whatdoesshedotothem]

Tuesday 9 June 1840

8 10/..

2 50/..

very fine morning R18 ½°+ and F74° now at 9 ¾ - reading vol. ii Dubois – breakfast over at 10 40/.. – the Cossack had inquired – no carriage to be had – had found a man that would repair the kibitkas but he could not come till tomorrow – sent for our landlord – knows of no carriage or kibitka to be had in Tiflis but of Hein – enough – the straight struck me to call 1st on Madame Golovin and ask the general en chef to order 2 kibitkas to be repaired – then sat reading till 12 – out at 12 10/.. – called on Madame Golovin – not at home – left cards – then admitted chez les Kotzebue – explained – asked Madame K- to ask the general to give an order for our 2 kibitkas to be repaired by the soldiers – then to the Braïkos – admitted – he kind and good and useful as ever – we have not owned more to anyone, than to him during our stay here – home at 1 ¼ - the droshky at 4 3/.. (Madame Scallons’) took us to dinner at Madame Chwostoffs’ – off at 4 10/.. arrived in 5 minutes – nobody to meet us but the ex-French consul Mr. .......... and his successor le baron Sauveur de la Chapelle a fat dirty-figured (dirty nails) vulgar self sufficient Frenchman unable to taste anything with onion in it but calling for Cognac to his coffee – no sort of help about our carriages – home per droschky at 5 50/.. – locked out – went and sat with Madame Bonjouroff A- about ¾ hour and I an hour till 6 50/.. – then sat reading or talking till about (after) 8, when Madame B- came to us – drank tea and staid till 1 5/.. – had Mr. Saltzman about German carriage and voiturier – much lightning and thunder and heavy rain from about 10 p.m. or after till between 1 and 2 in the morning (fine day – very hot) Note from Madame Kotzebue about 6 this evening – not très poli – her husband “bien fâcher de ne pouvoir vous server dans cette occasion”

[influencermagazineuk]

Wife of Missing TV Presenter Michael Mosley Maintains Hope in Search

Image: Facebook Dr. Clare Bailey Mosley, wife of missing television and radio personality Michael Mosley, expressed her unwavering hope as the search on the Greek island of Symi continues. Dr. Mosley, 67, vanished after embarking on a walk on Wednesday. "The past few days have been the most agonizing and unbearable for myself and our children," Dr. Bailey Mosley said in a statement. "The search efforts are ongoing, and our family is incredibly grateful to the people of Symi, the Greek authorities, and the British Consulate for their tireless work in finding Michael. We will not give up hope." Dr. Bailey Mosley has actively participated in the search alongside friends. New CCTV Footage Emerges BBC News obtained new CCTV footage, believed to be one of the last sightings of Dr. Mosley. The footage shows a man, believed to be Dr. Mosley, walking with an umbrella near the marina in the village of Pedi on Wednesday, heading towards the rocky hills. An unnamed police officer informed BBC News that the man in the footage appeared to be in good health and walking steadily. This has led Greek authorities to shift their search focus to this area. The mountainous terrain increases the risk of falls or getting lost. One theory suggests Dr. Mosley might have attempted a more challenging route than initially thought, potentially covering miles of exposed hillsides. Extensive Search Efforts Underway Authorities are utilizing various resources in the search, including drones, helicopters, sniffer dogs, divers, patrol boats, and private vessels. Symi's mayor, Eleftherios Papakaloudoukas, assured that the search will continue until Dr. Mosley is found. Dr. Michael Mosley: A Renowned Figure Dr. Mosley transitioned from medicine to a successful career as a presenter, documentary maker, journalist, and author. He appeared on prominent programs like BBC One's The One Show and ITV's This Morning. Additionally, he is a columnist for the Daily Mail and has hosted shows like "Michael Mosley: Who Made Britain Fat?" and "Trust Me, I'm A Doctor." Support Pours In Fellow presenter Dr. Saleyha Ahsan, co-star of "Trust Me, I'm A Doctor," expressed her deep concern and hope for Dr. Mosley's safe return. On The One Show, presenter Alex Jones shared their worries and offered support to Dr. Mosley's family. Timeline of Events - Wednesday: - 1:30 PM Local Time (11:30 AM BST) - Dr. Michael Mosley leaves his wife on Agios Nikolaos beach for a walk. - 1:50 PM - A man with an umbrella is captured on CCTV in Pedi. - 1:57 PM - The same man is seen again at Pedi's marina heading northeast. - Thursday: - 11:15 AM - Unable to locate Dr. Mosley, police notify Athens and request assistance from the Greek fire department. - 2:00 PM - Greek fire services with six firefighters and a drone team arrive in Symi. - 7:00 PM - A helicopter joins the search efforts. - Friday: - Divers begin searching the waters around Symi. - Saturday: - 6:00 AM - Firefighters resume the search for Dr. Mosley. - 2:00 PM - Dr. Clare Bailey Mosley expresses unwavering hope and thanks those involved in the search. Read the full article