#eleanors ancient sea

[heartsfortwotpot]

random

#two tpot #tpot #bfb #bfdi #xfohv #osc #my art #art #eleanors ancient sea #mine #i havent been able to focus on anything meaningful because of school. ggggrrrrrrrrrr #dw im gonna go hard this summer i promise

[monstersandmaw]

Laces for a Lady - 18th century poly shifter romance (Part one, sfw)

Disclaimer which I’m including in all my works after plagiarism and theft has taken place: I do not give my consent for my works to be used, copied, published, or posted anywhere. They are copyrighted and belong to me. 

Well folks, here it is. You said you were interested, so I hope it meets expectations! Here's part one for you, of a multi part story. If you want to kno wmore about it, you can find some more info here, as well as a little 'mood board'.

Content: sfw, the daughter of a country gentleman from Sussex relocates to a sleepy fishing village in Cornwall in order to become the paid companion of a young widow, and meets some of the locals on her arrival. Wordcount: 3972

Five and twenty ponies, Trotting through the dark - Brandy for the Parson, 'Baccy for the Clerk. Laces for a lady; letters for a spy, Watch the wall my darling while the Gentlemen go by! ~ from ‘A Smugglers’ Song’, Rudyard Kipling (1906)

In the cool, lavender light of a late spring dawn, a gaff-rigged cutter drew into the sheltering arms of a small bay at high tide, and quietly dropped anchor. As if the soft splash had awoken him, a cockerel spluttered to life in a farmyard somewhere inland, but most of the villagers were already up and awake and steering their small, secret fleet of boats out from the golden crescent of sand beneath the cliffs to meet the waiting ship fresh from Roscoff.

Beneath the waves, where churning kelp moored itself in unyielding handfuls to the ancient granite of the sea floor, a long, serpentine shadow snaked between the stalks, and the currents of the coastline subtly shifted. Any revenue men trying to sail along the coast from Fowey to catch the smugglers would have found the wind and tide set dead against them, and in the subtle wake that wafted from the mottled, eel-like tail as it passed unseen, the waters of the secluded inlet calmed beneath the keels of the scurrying fishing boats. The drag of the oars through the waves lessened, and muscles already tired from heaving and hefting goods up the cliff moved a fraction easier for the unexpected boon.

Between them over the next hour, the gathered men and women shifted their haul of half anker barrels and dozens of crates and boxes of goods ashore. The small kegs of rich, French cognac would fetch a pretty price all across Cornwall, and along with the liquor came smaller luxuries like lace and silk, and bundles of tobacco and spiced tea, all meticulously wrapped in oil cloth to keep the sea and the salt and the water out.

And when the speedy, slender ship was riding noticeably higher in the water, the locals simply melted away into the countryside like so many mice from a late summer granary before the excise men even knew the ship from Guernsey had visited the cove at all.

Fifteen miles away, as the sun breached the horizon and cast its first rays of warmth along bellies of fleecy clouds and the flanks of blossoming hedgerows below, a stagecoach lurched and rumbled westwards along potholed roads, and a young woman stared out of the grimy window as the horses carried her into a new chapter of her life.

After leapfrogging some two hundred miles or so along the staging stations that dotted the South Coast, with nothing but a small trunk of her belongings and a thrice-read, dog-eared novel for company, Eleanor Bywater was more than ready to see the back of that infernal stagecoach. Had it not been for the small but inconveniently bulky travelling case sitting at her feet, she might have hired a horse and ridden from the last staging inn at Plymouth to reach the secluded fishing village of Polgarrack, but given that the trunk held all her worldly belongings, she had not been quite desperate enough to escape the discomfort of hard seats and poor suspension to abandon it.

Bouncing along in the nearly-empty stagecoach, she studiously tried to ignore the older woman sitting opposite her. She’d stared intently at Nel since they'd left Plymouth behind that morning, and her scrutiny had begun to make that last twenty mile stretch feel much, much longer.

Finally, after jouncing over a pothole deep enough to start prospecting for copper ore at the bottom, Nel gasped and then raised her eyes to meet the woman’s openly curious stare. She found sympathy for her own discomfort, and a small degree of kindly amusement too. 

“Where are you headed, miss?” the stranger asked after Nel raised the hint of an eyebrow at her as the silence stretched.

“Polgarrack.”

At that, the woman’s grey eyes narrowed in confusion. “Now what takes a young miss like you to an old fishing village like Polgarrack?”

She looked to be in her fifties, though a life beside the harsh sea had weathered her features somewhat, and her wiry grey hair was covered by a simple linen cap. Her dress was dark and plain, though there was a hint of tired lace around the neck and cuffs. Her hands had the tough, reddened look of someone who scrubbed pots and salted fish, while Nel’s own hands were smooth and soft, if a little ink stained from sending a letter to her friend before leaving the inn that morning.

Nel laughed quietly and shrugged. “There’s no mystery to it,” she said. “I am to be employed as a companion to the widowed Lady Penrose at Heath Top House. I am expected there this afternoon.”

Given that only ladies of relatively high social standing themselves tended to become a ‘lady’s companion’, the older woman made a hasty re-evaluation of her fellow traveller, and her already ruddy cheeks flushed a darker shade as she cleared her throat and looked away.

“Begging your pardon, miss,” she said. “We don’t get many new faces in Polgarrack, is all. I didn’t mean to pry or cause offence with my questions.”

“No harm in a little curiosity,” Nel said, trying to put the stranger at ease to avoid any further awkwardness between them on the remainder of their journey. “I take it you’re from Polgarrack yourself then?”

“Oh, born and raised, miss,” she chortled. She eyed the forest green redingote Nel wore, with its rather masculine high collar, wide lapels and small, gold pocket watch dangling on a chain, and the contrasting sage green skirts beneath, and no doubt made one or two judgements of her own about the young lady. “And yourself? You don’t sound as though you’re from these parts at all, if I may be so bold.”

Nel smiled. “I’ve come from Sussex.”

The woman’s watery, grey-blue eyes widened almost comically and she gasped. “’at's a bloody long way, miss! And all on your own?” She shook her head but remembered herself and mumbled, “Begging your pardon.”

“You’re right,” Nel sighed, letting her gaze slide to the window to watch the countryside roll past in a blur of salt-bleached grass and vibrant yellow gorse flowers. “It is a bloody long way.” And her spine and backside felt every lump and bump and lurch of the stagecoaches from Sussex to Cornwall. With a warmer smile, she turned back to the woman. “My name is Eleanor, but most people call me Nel.”

“Agatha,” she replied with a grandmotherly smile of her own for the young woman. “But everyone calls me Aggie. My husband, Martin, is the village carter and smith, and we’ve got four boys, all of them either fishermen or miners. They all married too, so I’ve got nine grandchildren, if you can believe it!”

Nel offered Aggie her congratulations and another little smile, and then ventured to ask, “Will you tell me a bit about the place? I should like to know more about it, since it is to be my home for the foreseeable future.”

Aggie brightened even more and shuffled her plain, dark skirts, giving a wince and a grunt as the coach lurched over a pothole and the driver cursed audibly above them. Settled, if not entirely comfortable, she began.

“Well, see now. Folks has been fishing these waters for time out of mind. Pilchards is our mainstay, o’course, but the folks over St. Austell way mine clay, and obviously there’s copper and tin mines all over in the north of Cornwall. Mining here is as old as fishing, but it’s starting to dry up here and there now, o’course.”

She barely paused to draw breath before barrelling on, and Nel sat and listened while the older woman talked.

“Now, your Lady Penrose married into the Penrose family — see, she’s from Bath herself originally, though I can’t rightly remember what her family name was, but…” Nel let Agatha's potted history of the fishing and mining community wash over her, paying just enough attention to make polite sounds at the right pauses, but the discomfort of the journey and a decided lack of sleep was beginning to wear her attention span down to a single, fraying thread.

After two hours in the swaying, rolling coach, she felt woozy and weak-stomached, but with Aggie’s near-constant chatter, she at least had a better understanding of the politics of the little village than she’d ever have gained in six months on her own. She’d also learned why Aggie had been in Plymouth, since most folks never had any reason to travel further than the bounds of their own parish. Agatha’s sister’s husband had apparently been killed in the American Revolutionary War some ten years earlier, and since the widow’s health wasn’t the best these days, Aggie made the trip along the coast when she could to see her and take care of her.

Nel’s ticket took her as far as Whitcross, a desolate intersection of paler roads on a clifftop overlooking the tightly-nestled fishing port below, and away across the heather and tufted grass of the heath, she could just see an old manor house in the distance, flanked by tall copper beeches and ash trees. It looked slightly further away than she had anticipated, and she glanced apprehensively down at the travelling trunk at her feet.

Still, she was aching for fresh air and to be free of the sickening motion of the carriage, so she took the driver’s hand and allowed him to guide her safely down onto the hard-packed surface of the road before he lifted her case down for her as well.

From inside, Aggie peered out and scowled disapprovingly. “Now just you wait a moment,” she barked at the driver, who cocked an eyebrow but did pause. “Did they not send someone for you, dearie?” she asked Nel, still leaning out of the doorway and peering about like a disgruntled badger, and using the endearment freely. Apparently, two hours of talking non-stop at Nel had removed any pretence of formality or sense of social distance. Nel might as well have been adopted into Aggie Carter’s family as a niece by that point, and she couldn’t help but smile at the warmth it conjured in her chest.

“I… I never thought that far through,” she admitted, with her hand atop her bonnet as the wind gusted up from the sea below, soaring delightedly over the edge of the cliff and racing on inland as if to continue the momentum of the great rolling breakers that foamed and thundered against the shore. The coachman glanced at his pocket watch and groused something about a schedule that was almost immediately lost to the next inward gust.

“No, no, dearie,” the old woman scoffed. “No, you must come into the village. It’s far too far to go all by yourself, and with that case as well. Here, let me —”

“I can manage the case, I assure you,” Nel said with a gentle smile as Aggie half-toppled, half-leaned out of the coach to pick up the case. “How far is it to the house?”

“Two miles up that hill yonder,” Agatha said, pointing with one gnarled and arthritic finger towards the house on the rise to the north. “Come to the Lantern, and we’ll have one of the lads take you up once you’ve caught your breath.” The Lantern, as Nel now knew thanks to Aggie’s detailed prattling, was the inn at the centre of the village, right on the water near the harbour.

She had been about to protest, but with a sigh, she simply nodded. The constant journeying and jolting had worn her down more than she cared to admit, and while she wasn’t the kind of wallflower she’d met any number of times in London during the Season, a life led mostly indoors with few opportunities for physical activity had not prepared her for a two mile walk in heavy, too-fine clothes, carrying an unwieldy case in gusty conditions. Her family had been invited a number of times to Goodwood House to walk the large park there, and she had frequently ridden a rather spirited mare through the parkland of Lavington Hall with her dear friend William, so she was not entirely unused to the great outdoors, but she did have to admit that her experiences had been rather more curated and sanitised than the wild expanse of heathland visible on all sides of the stagecoach from Whitcross.

“You’re kind, Agatha,” she said, and let the woman heft her case into the otherwise empty coach.

The thing about a tiny village was that an outsider stood out a mile, and a young lady in her mid twenties and dressed in impractical, rich green clothes, stood out like a beacon in a dark night. Everyone turned to watch her as she disembarked from the coach. At home, she had barely garnered a look from anyone. Being the centre of everyone’s curiosity there was novel and, in a word, horrifying.

She almost blurted aloud that one would think she was a revenue man come inspecting for smuggled goods, but she bit it back just in time. Cornwall’s so-called ‘free trade’ and smuggling rackets were absolutely none of her concern as an outsider, infamous though they may be, and it would do her no good to start sticking her nose where it did not belong.

The Lantern was a half-timbered, two-storey building that faced the walled harbour. Its painted sign was peeling and sun-bleached, and it squawked something dreadful as it swung back and forth in the squalling wind. Mullioned windows glinted and shimmered, though the small, diamond panes were caked with a haze of salt spray, and alongside the inn, a hand-cart rumbled down from a narrow side alley towards the harbour beyond, where fishing boats bobbed on their mooring lines at the lapping high tide.

Agatha pushed open the black-painted door but came to an abrupt halt as someone appeared to be leaving the inn at the exact same moment, and nearly barrelled into her and Nel.

“Oh, excuse me,” came a young man’s hoarse tenor, and he stepped aside within the inn’s small porch to allow the two women to enter before he left.

Nel noted briefly that he wore well-made but plain clothes, and carried a hefty looking cane in his left hand, upon which he leaned while he waited for them to pass. He was pale and thin, his undyed linen shirt hanging loosely off his shoulders, and his light brown hair was tied back at the nape of his neck into a horsetail. The moment he met her eye, he inhaled in surprise and almost immediately looked away, his large, dark brown eyes turning shy and uncertain. “M’lady,” he mumbled without looking up.

She didn’t have time to correct him and tell him she had no such title, because the moment she had stepped inside, he was off out into the day beyond, limping markedly on his right leg as he went.

Nel turned back to find Agatha waiting for her, watching. “That there was young Edmund Nancarrow,” she supplied as Nel caught up with her. “Local lad. Lots of Nancarrows in this area,” she chuckled. “Can’t move for tripping over a Nancarrow. He was a shy, skittish thing even before he went off to war in the Colonies and came back with a bad leg,” she added. “But he’s a sweetheart if ever I saw one. Tailor’s ’prentice he is now.”

At that, Nel just nodded. Something in her ached when she realised she probably wouldn’t have much to do with the folk from the village once she was ensconced up at Heath Top House, and she half wised she could. They already sounded far more interesting than the Lady Winnifred Penrose, with whom Nel had only exchanged a short flurry of letters before becoming formally engaged as her ‘companion’. 

Still, an unmarried woman of Nel’s age and social standing was considered almost past her prime, and given that the few marriage proposals she had received had faded into the mists of her very early adulthood, she had had to find another respectable way to support herself. Hence, Heath Top House.

Aggie bustled her into the main room of the pub, and their arrival caused a flurry of activity that drew the eyes of a good few patrons. 

Seated at the wooden bar inside, hunched over a pewter tankard, sat a tall, bulky man in his late-thirties or early forties, with long, thick, dark grey hair shot through with a shimmer of silver white. He had it tied back off his face in a low ponytail at the nape of his neck and as he turned to regard Nel’s arrival, she met unusually deep green eyes surrounded by a web of crows’ feet lines in a tanned, weathered face. His scowl was dark and full of suspicion, but even the storm clouds in his expression couldn’t mask the fact that he was handsome, in a rugged, rough-hewn kind of way.

When she saw where Nel’s attention had snagged, Aggie let out a little gasp and snatched her by the upper arm to steer her towards an empty table in a bay window, about as far from the wooden bar where the man still sat and glared at them as it was possible to be. 

“And that’s Locryn Trevethan,” Aggie hissed as she saw Nel settled into a seat. “Can’t say as I’ve seen him in here more than a handful of times this year though. He’s usually out on the water. Lives alone in an old stone cottage round the bay from here, up at Pilchard Sands. You’d probably best be giving him a wide berth, miss. Not that he should give you any trouble, mind,” she amended carefully, “But he’s not for the likes of you to go mingling with.”

Nel smiled at the protective tone in the older woman’s voice, and nodded once.

With her warning given, Aggie raised her voice and called over to the old man behind the bar. “’ere, Tom! This young lady needs a ride up to Heath Top. You think you can arrange that for her?”

The stoop-shouldered, white-haired man nodded and knuckled his forehead at Nel across the space. “Not the finest, but we got a cart.”

“If you have a horse, I could ride,” she said, trying to be helpful.

“Ain’t got a saddle for a lady,” he said regretfully.

Memories of galloping through the leafy trees of Lavington Hall’s parkland with William flashed across her mind and she suppressed a smile. She certainly hadn’t ridden the grey mare side-saddle while keeping up with her childhood friend, and although it had been a year or so since she’d sat astride a horse instead of side-saddle, she thought she could manage well enough. “I know how to ride a man’s saddle,” she said, “But I do have a travel case I’d need to send someone back for.”

“I could get one of the lads to bring that up for you after,” said Tom, “But it’s almost as much effort to hitch up a cart as it is to tack up a horse for riding, ma’am.”

“Whatever is the least trouble for you will do fine,” she said, and the stoic, weather-beaten old man’s red cheeks darkened and he ducked his head.

While Tom left to sort out transportation to the house, Aggie flapped about getting some refreshments for Nel, leaving her to wait at the table alone.

In the wake of the hubbub and pother Agatha left behind her, Nel took a long, deep breath looked around to find Locryn Trevethan still staring across the room at her. Taken aback by his directness and the intensity of his glare, she tried to smile, but his expression remained thunderous beneath strong, dark brows, and she quickly looked away, embarrassed.

In a face turned to leather by the sun and sea-wind, wide cheekbones and a heavy brow framed his piercingly green eyes. Never mind that marked crow’s feet around his eyes that made him look like he would rather have been laughing; the contrast between the dark, hostile glower and the soft laughter lines unnerved her and made her feel off-balance, as though her stranger’s presence in their local pub had unknowingly raised the ire of a usually gentle man. 

He had a short, neatly-trimmed, salt-and-pepper beard around full lips that were currently turned down at the corners and which bore a silver-pink scar across the middle. Despite the warm day, he wore a fisherman’s dense, woollen sweater, and when she risked another look back at him, she found him still frowning openly across the bar at her.

Nel didn’t relax until Aggie returned, at which point the man snapped abruptly out of his trance, slammed a coin down on the bar, and strode from the pub on long legs that were thick as tree trucks at the thigh. The door bounced back off the plasterwork in his wake and his boots rang on the flagstones outside.

“Not one to welcome strangers, I take it,” Nel muttered, and downed half of the cheap, watered-down wine that Agatha had set on the table for her.

“Oh don’t you pay him no mind, miss,” Aggie scoffed, settling herself down into the seat opposite her like a brooding hen and glaring at the pub door. “He don’t seem to like no one in Polgarrack save for sweet Ned Nancarrow, strangely enough. Then again, I ain’t met no one who’s taken a disliking to sweet Ned. Now, Tom will have the horse and cart ready for you in just a moment, but you just take your time and recover after your journey.”

Nel, who had felt ten times better the moment she’d taken her first proper lungful of sea air on stepping out of the swaying stagecoach, looked across the table into the older woman’s face and found a mother’s kindness and compassion in her wrinkled face, and something twisted in her gut. “You’re very kind,” she whispered, unable to muster anything more. “Thank you.”

She chuckled. “You know, and don’t you take this amiss, but you remind me of my niece a little, though she’s a little younger than you.”

Nel’s eyebrows twitched in wry amusement, and Agatha blushed at the impropriety of her words. Nel didn’t get the chance to reassure her because Tom shuffled back in and told her the cart was ready for her.

She laid a coin on the table for the wine and stood, following the innkeep out into the yard and clambering up with her case into the back of the cart. It was hardly a very dignified mode of transport for someone of her station, and when Tom said as much while they rumbled out of the inn’s yard, Nel just laughed and said she didn’t mind.

“Anything is better than that awful rolling stagecoach,” she beamed, and swung her legs back and forth like a child off the back of the cart bed while Tom clucked his tongue at the horse to hurry up.

As they trundled up the narrow, cobbled street from the harbour, they passed Edmund Nancarrow standing outside a tailor’s shop, talking with the beast of a man from the bar. Both men looked up and watched her pass like she was some kind of rare spectacle.

In a way, she supposed she was. 

Still, she smiled at them despite her nerves, and Edmund knuckled a non-existent cap at her with a shy smile, while Locryn just glared.

She sighed and wondered what this next chapter in her life would bring.

___

Next chapter ->

Well, what did you think of it so far? I can't wait to hear your thoughts on it, as always!

I hope you’ll consider reblogging as well as leaving a like if you enjoyed it. Take care, and I hope you have a lovely day/night wherever you are, and whenever you read this.

| Masterlist | Ko-fi (tip jar)

#selkie #bucca #polyamory #polyamorous romance #poly story #o #historical fantasy #shifter romance #poly shifter romance #18th century romance #shapeshifter romance #m/m/f

[seancurry1]

Humans can’t help creating a narrative any more than we can help breathing. The second there’s someone else out there besides you, narrative exists. The moment our most ancient proto ancestors realized there were some who came before and some who would come after, narrative sprang into being. Narrative is what we think about our species, and the more people we become aware of, the bigger and more powerful it gets. It simply is, and while it can’t exist without us, it also exists separately and apart from each of us.

Narrative isn’t evil or good. It just is, like magnetism. It isn’t capitalism, but capitalism definitely uses it. Whatever mode of society we’re trying out at any given time uses it: capitalism, socialism, monarchism, feudalism, theocracy, etc. This isn’t about narrative’s inherent morality, because it has no more morality than magnetism does. It’s about how it’s used, and to what ends. Unfortunately, there are a lot of people who want to use it for selfish reasons: to compel you to vote a certain way, shop a certain way, or set certain goals. The Great Heaving Mass is what happens when selfish people wrest control of our collective narrative away from the rest of us and use it to further their own ends, instead of the common good.

We’re all pretty good at seeing some of the Great Heaving Mass some of the time, and in those moments, we’re also pretty good at resisting it. But this is also its cleverness: it doesn’t try to overpower you, it overwhelms you. You could probably survive a blast of water for a short period of time. How long would you survive treading water in an endless sea?

My point with all this isn’t that we should avoid narrative, or flee to the woods, or shun anyone who tries to use narrative to push a message. Narrative can be used for good: the Black Lives Matter protests of 2020, the fight for marriage equality, and the current push to normalize the existence and acceptance of trans people are all good examples. Narrative can be used for fun, or for necessity, or for community building, and at its best, it inspires all of us toward a common goal.

I’m not suggesting we need to be afraid of narrative, but we do need to be aware of narrative.

The people that have bought into the Great Heaving Mass need you to forget that you’re living inside a narrative—and they really need you to forget that you can shape the narrative, too. These tools that have arisen in the past few centuries—printing presses, telegraphs, phones, radios and tvs, the internet—have given smaller and smaller groups of people undue power over the narrative, but they’ve given us that power, too. We have to band together more than they do to wield it, but we can band together and take that power for ourselves.

And it terrifies them.

Why do you think they want to keep us in their walled gardens?

Got another one up at my website about narrative, how it affects us, and what Eleanor Roosevelt and Banksy might agree on.

Check it out on my website!

#internet #media #narrative #gatekeepers #online

[paprotkarotka]

A letter to a dead friend.

Dear friend,

In the face of recent events, I decided to visit home, meaning the exact place I was born. Curiosity got the best of me, even though I know such reminiscences very rarely end well for me, as I tend to fall into a spiral of overthinking.

But can you blame me, at my ripe age, for nostalgia? As a human, I am doomed to commit the same mistakes without learning until it bites me in the ass.

I was pleasantly surprised to discover a meadow with an orchard where my house once stood. (Or at least where I think it stood.) I expected more urban development in the place, not a bunch of apple trees and a sea of grass, but I am not complaining. It's nice to rest my ancient bones in the shadow of an apple tree once in a while.

It is a strangely unbothered patch of land, which didn’t help with the nostalgia. It felt familiar. It lingered on the verge of my memories, almost tangible, but not quite. So close, yet too far away to reach. I thought I would feel better and that my visit would soothe my pain and longing for comfort and home. But it left me even more broken and regretful.

With all that lingering familiarity, it felt strangely cold and foreign. Surreal even. At first, I couldn’t exactly put my finger on what bothered me so much. And then it hit me. The feeling of belonging was gone. I have simply forgotten all of it—the people that used to live here, their daily problems and squabbles, and myself in the middle of that. I forgot what I was doing here, hence the strange feeling of a loss. I just couldn’t remember myself in this place. As if I've never been here.

I'm old. I'm very, very old. And I keep forgetting more and more details from my past. Every memory I lose devastates me to the core. I don't remember my mother's, Eleanor's, or Peggy's faces. It's all jumbled and smudged in my memory. It's like I'm in a fog, which grows thicker as I stumble through it. I don't even remember my mother's voice or her sweet lullaby that I used to hum all the time. To keep myself from forgetting. But it happened eventually.

But that doesn't scare me the most; what scares me the most is that I don't recognise the world I once called home. It's all familiar, but I don't have the feeling of belonging. I don't feel alienated, just... alien. Immortality is the best thing that could have happened to me, but human memory is limited. I'm doomed to live forever... And forget. And what are we if not memories? This is what makes me "me". I'm not even sure my real name is Robert at this point. I just remember using it, but since when? Who knows. Am I even the same person now? Or maybe I forgot completely who I was and turned into a stranger. Will I remember this in a thousand years? Five thousand? Those questions scare me. I am scared to lose myself.

I am afraid, dear friend, that I will forget you too, one day. I will fight tooth and nail not to, but as experience has taught me, it will happen eventually. It saddens me deeply, and I know thinking about it is senseless now, but I cannot help it, as from everything I’ve experienced and everyone I’ve met, you’re the one I wish to remember most, for as long as I can.

Dear friend, this letter might never reach you, but if it does, keep in mind that I will be waiting for you for as long as it takes and for as long as I remember. I will be there, anticipating our meetings, until I grow so old that you will have to remind me of what I am waiting for. Promise me that.

Your friend,

Robert

Big shoutout to my friend who not only checked the letter for me, but also did a recording if it, check it out please: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QUKTmfK_Sz0

#the sandman #hob gadling #dream of the endless #the sandman fanart #ferdinand kingsley #sandman #tom sturridge #my art #paprotkaart

[vigilskeep]

how open were Eleanor and Tristan with their magic at Castle Cousland? I think you said pretty much everyone knows, but in that case how did they arrive at that level of trust ?

not open to the point of foolishness. the staff knowing is part of that secrecy, i think; everyone in important positions has been kept on since tristan’s childhood, to maintain that loyalty and insularity. it’s a weird kind of open secret. it’s like... if you’ve seen house of the dragon, it’s like how everyone knows rhaenyra’s sons are bastards, just by looking at them, but if anyone says it that person has to face savage consequences because it’s the saying of it that threatens everything.

the mac eanraigs have always been rumoured to have magery in their blood, and eleanor as the sea wolf used her magic as a storm witch archetype sinking orlesian ships. people know that or suspect it, they just don’t say it. especially not after she married a political titan like the young reigning cousland who could have been king. (though i doubt he could have been king and faced that scrutiny with such a wife, which is super interesting, as a choice bryce made that might affect his very public very firm loyalty to cailan, and tristan’s opinions on the succession.) as for tristan, it’s hard to hide a young mage, they’re explosive, and young noblemen have so much contact and so many teachers. that secret could not be contained. the couslands are relying on what’s obviously the incredibly strong culture of local loyalty that they especially foster among their servants

nan, brother aldous, mother mallol, ser gilmore—they all know tristan is a mage. i think they also draw a distinction between their teyrna and young lord and those Other Terrible Mages. mother mallol in particular i think is doing some truly incredible theological acrobatics to have raised this one, but since she belongs to the couslands’ private chapel and would have been personally selected by them, i would love to get into regional variants in fereldan andrastianism especially in terms of ferelden being relatively pro-mage. i mean, i could totally see them keeping an andraste-was-a-mage style heretic on the payroll to suit their interests, and that would fucking rule. the couslands and mac eanraigs being ancient fereldan families who are perfectly good andrastians i’m sure but also might keep to some of their old ways and traditions is also very, very fun. i’m interested in the, i assume alamarri, styling of the story told by nan: when our fathers’ fathers came down from the mountains... maintaining those traditions and hiring from among those shared belief would again make it much easier to maintain insularity against any threat from the orlesian chantry, even easier than it would be considering the fereldan mistrust of the outsider and the well-earned hatred of the orlesian interloper in our business

with eleanor, i use her lines about abandoning her shieldmaiden era for the “softer arts” to interpret her as being very glad to abandon her magic. eleanor keeps her skills sharp in extreme privacy but otherwise uses it as little as possible, and if it wasn’t for tristan she’d be able to maintain her fantasy of normality almost completely

tristan himself was trained as a warrior alongside his brother, in order to maintain visuals, and also because i’m not sure bryce would know what the hell else to do with him lmao. he carries a sword in the castle, but does own a stave, which is kept in his chambers for use in study. (rigid training is still demanded to protect himself in the fade, eleanor’s not stupid.) he might be willing to do spells behind closed doors; he fired a few at the rats in the larder, for example, because it was just gilmore and they’d shut the door to the kitchen and nobody minds spells when it keeps you from getting bitten by giant rats. he’s not going to be stupid about it, but he’s not worried about it day to day either. at the same time, pre-joining tristan is a bored tiger in too small a cage with magic roiling up inside of his chest who thinks he will never get to use it and takes whatever little opportunity he can get

howe would know, i think, which is fascinating, by the by

#tristan cousland #the mechanics of this are soooo fun to work through

[ell-vellan]

Dragon Age OC Approval Tag Game

I was tagged in this by @fenharel-apologist94 days ago and I've had to noodle on it for a while because it was really thought-provoking. Thanks for tagging, it's a fun creative exercise!

So here's a few items that would gain approval with my OCs if they were given as a gift.

Tags, for any OCs you’d like! @thegoblinwitchqueen @thebookworm0001 @beastofmoss @oxygenforthewicked @vhenan-solas @platoniccereal 💖 and any anyone else who'd like to!

My DA OCs and the gifts that would earn their highest approval:

Auriel Cousland - Raiders of the Deep: Saga of the Seawolf, Volume 1. A rare first edition of an apparently multi-volume epic detailing the early life of Eleanor Mac Eanraig, daughter of the famous sea raider Storm Giant, before she became Teyrna of Highever, and her adventures upon the Waking Sea aboard her ship the Mistral during the Fereldan Rebellion. This particular copy professes to bear the autograph of the Lady Seawolf herself.

Lathlen Mahariel - Unusually sturdy bow hand-crafted of materials unknown by famed Dalish master craftsman Dinlaselan, whose clan was wiped out by an Orlesian village in the Dales after many years of hostilities between them. Few such masterworks remain, as the humams systemically hunted down as many as they could find to burn as revenge. Those that survive are fiercely protected by neighboring clans, and have been passed down with great reverence as an honor for their best hunters for many years.

Ellawyn Lavellan - Amulet of Ghilan'nain. Discovered by University of Orlais scholars in the ruins of an ancient elven temple to an unknown god, an amber pendant within which hangs suspended a strange rune believed to be symbolic of Dalish goddess Ghilan'nain, its origin and purpose unknown. One scholar theorizes such relics were used in temple ritual, prayer, or as a good luck charm.

#tag game #dragon age #my ocs #ellawyn lavellan #lathlen mahariel #auriel cousland

[asongofsilks]

ASOIAF FANCASTING --> EVERY NAMED FEMALE CHARACTER ABOVE THE AGE OF FIVE, PART XIX

Elaena Targaryen (c. 150-220 AC): Youngest child of King Aegon III and his wife Daenaera Velaryon. For the entirety of her teenage years, she was imprisoned in the Maidenvault by her older brother, Baelor I. She fell in love with Lord Alyn Velaryon and gave birth to his twin bastard children, Jon and Jeyne Waters. After he disappeared at sea, she eventually agreed to marry another after a year had passed. She was wed to the aged Lord Ossifer Plumm, but he died on their wedding night. Nine months later, she gave birth to a son, Viserys Plumm, whom some whispered had been fathered by the ruling king, Elaena's cousin Aegon. After Aegon's death, she married Lord Ronnel Penrose, Daeron II's master of coin. Daeron trusted Elaena with many matters of state, including doing her husband's job. She had four children with Ronnel, then declared that seven children was enough for her. After he died, she married once more, this time for love. Fancast: Kirsten Dunst.

Eleanor Mooton (b. 286 AC): Daughter and heir of Lord William Mooton of Maidenpool. She is wed to Dickon Tarly, the youngest son and heir of Randyll Tarly of Horn Hill, who has occupied Maidenpool at the end of the War of Five Kings. Fancast: Bella Ramsey.

Elenda Caron (b. approx. 97 AC): Wife of Lord Borros Baratheon of Storm's End, and mother to his four daughters, the Four Storms. In the Dance of the Dragons, Lord Borros was initially courted by both sides, but came out in support of Aegon II after betrothing one of his daughters to Aegon's brother Aemond. Elenda became pregnant once again during the Dance and gave birth to a boy, Royce, seven days after her husband died in battle. She ruled the Stormlands as regent until her son came of age. Fancast: Meryem Uzerli.

Elenei (Age of Heroes): The daughter of the sea god and the goddess of the wind, she loved the mortal Durran Godsgrief, who became the first Storm King. Angered at their union, her parents destroyed every castle that Durran built, until the seventh castle withstood their anger. Fancast: Andie MacDowell.

Eleyna Westerling (b. 287 AC): Younger daughter of Lord Gawen Westerling and his wife, Sybell Spicer. Her older sister, Jeyne, becomes the wife and queen of Robb Stark during the war of the Five Kings, and Eleyna and her mother and siblings join his retinue. Fancast: Bonnie Wright.

Elia Martell (256-283 AC): Daughter of the ruling Princess of Dorne and wife of Prince Rhaegar Targaryen, with whom she had two children, Rhaenys and Aegon. Elia's health was ever fragile, and the maesters advised that it would be dangerous for her to bear any more children; this may have been the reason that Prince Rhaegar abducted Lyanna Stark, since he believed that he needed to have three children to fulfill an ancient prophecy. However, Rhaegar died in battle during Robert's Rebellion, and when King's Landing fell to Tywin Lannister, Elia and her two tiny children were brutally murdered at his command. Fancast: Anna Shaffer.

Elia Sand (b. 285 AC): Eldest daughter of Prince Oberyn Martell, younger brother of the ruling Prince Doran, and his paramour Ellaria Sand. She accompanies her cousin, Princess Arianne Martell, on her way to meet the Golden Company, and gets into trouble along the way. Fancast: Ivana Baquero.

Elinda Massey (b. approx. 115 AC): Lady in waiting to Queen Rhaenyra during the Dance of the Dragons. She was with Rhaenyra in King's Landing until she fled from the rioting, and landed with her on Dragonstone, where she witnessed Rhaenyra's death by her brother Aegon II's dragon, Sunfyre. Stories say that she gouged her own eyes out at the sight of Rhaenyra being devoured by the dragon. Fancast: Doutzen Kroes.

Elinor Costayne (b. 28 AC): The widow of a knight named Theo Bolling. After he was killed by the king, Maegor the Cruel, for supposedly conspiring with the Dowager Queen Alyssa to put her son Jaehaerys on the throne, she was summoned to marry Maegor in a ceremony with two other brides. All three women, known as the Black Brides, were widows and had borne children; Elinor had given her first husband three sons by the time she was nineteen. She became pregnant with Maegor's child, but the son was stillborn and deformed. After Maegor's death and the accession of Jaehaerys I, she was one of the Seven Speakers who helped convince the realm of King's Jaehaerys' fitness for the crown and the Targaryens' exceptionalism. She eventually devoted herself to the Faith of the Seven, joining the great motherhouse in Lannisport. Fancast: Joely Richardson.

Elinor Massey (b. approx. 120 AC): She was one of the noblewomen suggested as a marriage candidate for King Aegon III after the death of his first wife, Jaehaera. After it was announced that there would be a ball held on Maiden's Day for the king to choose a new wife, a tale of how she had been deflowered started to spread, probably instigated by the Hand of the King, Unwin Peake, who wanted to marry the king to his own daughter, Myrielle. Fancast: Ece Çesmioglu.

Previous

#asoiaf fancast #valyrianscrolls #elia martell #elia sand #elinda massey #elinor massey #elinor costayne #elenei daughter of gods #eleyna westerling #elenda caron #eleanor mooton #elaena targaryen #allfancasts #asoiaf fashion

[diamondsforlife]

AQUAMARINE BIRTHSTONE MEANING & HISTORY

Aquamarine’s name comes from the Latin for seawater, and ancient mariners claimed the gem would calm waves and keep sailors safe at sea. This March birthstone was also thought to bring happiness in marriage. Beryl was believed to give the wearer protection against foes in battle and litigation. It was also thought to make the wearer unconquerable and amiable, and to quicken the intellect

Aquamarine is not only the birthstone for March, but the gem is also given as a present on the 19th wedding anniversary. As for famous ones, in 1936 the government of Brazil gave First Lady Eleanor Roosevelt a dark blue rectangular step-cut aquamarine that weighed 1,298 carats (ct). It was the larger of two stones faceted from a piece of aquamarine rough that itself weighed an impressive 2.9 pounds (1.3 kilograms). It is now housed at the Franklin D. Roosevelt Presidential Library and Museum in Hyde Park, New York.

[heartsfortwotpot]

on my telly......

#Caught blawg on the phone so i painted em 😹 💯 Who got them smiling like that doe... 🤔 🔥 ⁉️ #two tpot #tpot #bfb #bfdi #xfohv #osc #my art #eleanors ancient sea #mine #i did not realize how wrinkly my sheet was until this day

[gobboguy]

Chapter 12: Whispers of the Sea

In the neighboring Kingdom of Acury, the medieval port of Rochamber sprawled along the coastline, a bustling hive of activity against the backdrop of the vast sea. Towers of stone and timber reached for the sky, their flags snapping in the salty breeze. Dockworkers moved with purpose, unloading cargo from ships adorned with intricate sea motifs.

Among the knights patrolling the docks, a distinct order stood out – the Sea-Guardians, knights adorned in silvery armor intricately designed with scales and fish motifs. They moved with grace, their armor glinting like moonlight on the ocean, embodying the spirit of the sea they served.

From the Farfield Hope, Lord Alden, resplendent in his noble attire, descended the gangplank, his hand resting reassuringly on the hilt of the sword Eleanor. Elara, equally elegant, stood at his side, her presence a testament to Farfield's unity and strength. Behind them, Twig and Leaf, their eyes wide with curiosity, followed, flanked by the enigmatic Aquata.

As they approached, Lord Stroud, the ruler of Rochamber, greeted Alden with a facade of warmth that did not reach his eyes. However, when his gaze fell upon Elara, his expression soured, suspicion clouding his features. Accusations hung heavy in the air, unspoken but palpable, as he insinuated closeness between Elara, Twig, and Leaf that Alden had not revealed.

Alden, his voice calm but firm, defended his family with unwavering determination. "My Lord Stroud, Elara and her family is beyond reproach. Even though they are not of my loin," Alden added, "I won't allow anyone to speak ill of them, especially without cause."

The Sea-Guardians, recognizing the tension, discreetly parted, their armor clinking softly like the symphony of seashells in the tide. The air filled with the sound of conch shells blown like trumpets, resonating across the port.

Amidst the melodious echoes, a delegation of Merpeople, their tails enchanted to transform into legs, approached. At their head was Queen Arista, a vision of regality. Her hair, the color of sun-kissed wheat, cascaded down her back, and she wore a gown of deep forest green that shimmered like emerald waves under the sun. Her voice, though quiet like a whisper, held a commanding strength, as she welcomed Aquata back and turned her gaze to Lord Alden.

"Lord Alden of Farfield, welcome to Rochamber," she greeted, her eyes holding a depth of ancient wisdom. "I have longed for your arrival. There are matters of great import that we must discuss."

The stage was set for a pivotal conversation, the whispers of the sea carrying the weight of destiny as the rulers of two kingdoms prepared to converse, their fates intertwined like the currents of the ocean.

The sun dipped below the horizon, casting a cascade of twilight hues over the port of Rochamber. The evening breeze carried with it the salty tang of the sea, and shadows danced upon the cobblestone streets, cloaking the city in an air of mystery. Lord Stroud, his gaze clouded with worry, leaned forward, his voice low and enigmatic, as he explained the enigmatic raids that plagued the mountains to the north, a range known as the Verdant Spine.

"In the heart of the Frozen Spine, the people whisper fearfully of the green-men, these Orcs who raid our lands with impunity," Lord Stroud murmured, his tone heavy with concern. "But there's something more sinister at play, Alden. Whispers speak of a 'Dark Orc Leader,' a figurehead rallying them, leading them to bolder and more destructive raids."

Queen Arista, her eyes reflecting the depths of the ocean, interjected, her voice quiet yet commanding, "And beneath the waves, the Naga have been scouring ancient underwater ruins for something, something that may align with the Orcs' newfound aggression. Our scouts report that the Naga have acquired strange weapons, unknown in make and purpose. Captured Naga speak of a resurgence, of their race reclaiming dominance over the sea."

Alden, his brows furrowed with worry, spoke with a steely resolve, "Orcs are dangerous, unpredictable foes. An alliance between them and the Naga could bring untold devastation to both our realms."

A glimmer of hope flickered in Queen Arista's eyes as she continued, "But there might be a chance to disrupt their collaboration. My people have intercepted word of a mysterious object, a relic of great power, being transported to the Orc stronghold of Cairn Doom tonight. If we can intercept or manipulate this delivery, we may be able to sow discord between the Naga and the Orcs, halting their alliance before it solidifies."

The air crackled with anticipation, a palpable sense of urgency and determination enveloping the gathering. In the fading light of the day, beneath the watchful gaze of the stars, the fate of both kingdoms hung in the balance. Alden, Elara, Twig, Leaf, and Aquata stood on the precipice of a perilous mission, their courage and unity their strongest allies. The night was young, and the secrets of the Frozen Spine, the enigmatic Naga, and the menacing Dark Orc Leader awaited their discovery, promising both danger and the opportunity for triumph.

#fantasy #goblins #orcs #literature #gobboguy #SongsofPower3

[shellibisshe]

—oc name meaning

tagged by @hoesephseed @scungilliwoman @adelaidedrubman @johnnycranes @blissfulalchemist and @belorage thank you all!!

tagging: @florbelles @honeysides @preachercuster @jackiesarch @shallow-gravy @themysteriouslou @chyrstis @aceghosts @depyotee @vasiktomis @geronimo-11 @gorotakemura @sjlverhand @ma-sulevin @foofygoldfish @amistrio @strafethesesinners

I’m just gonna do my main clowns but I might do the rest later!

Elenore as a girls' name is of Greek origin, and the name Elenore means "other, foreign; sun ray". Elenore is a variant form of Eleanor (Old French, Old German). Elenore is also a derivative of Helen (Greek).

The name Parker is of Old English origin and means "cultivated land." It derives from the English surname that was for people "keepers of the park."

The name Emily is derived from the Roman family name Aemilius. The Aemilius family was a prominent and powerful family in ancient Rome. The name may come from the Latin word aemulus meaning “rival,” or the Greek term aimylos meaning “wily” or “persuasive.”

The name Parker is of Old English origin and means "cultivated land." It derives from the English surname that was for people "keepers of the park."

The name Daniel is a biblical name. Its earliest origins can be traced back to the Old Testament of the Bible, where it was defined as “God is my judge” in Hebrew.

From Middle English sede ‘seed’; a metonymic occupational name for a gardener or husbandman, or a nickname for a small person. From a late Old English personal name, Sida, a post-Conquest short form of compound names formed with sidu ‘custom’, ‘manner’; ‘morality’, ‘purity’ as the first element.

Margaret is a female first name, derived via French (Marguerite) and Latin (Margarita) from Ancient Greek: μαργαρίτης (margarítēs) meaning "pearl". The Greek is borrowed from Persian.

From Middle English sede ‘seed’; a metonymic occupational name for a gardener or husbandman, or a nickname for a small person. From a late Old English personal name, Sida, a post-Conquest short form of compound names formed with sidu ‘custom’, ‘manner’; ‘morality’, ‘purity’ as the first element.

Warren is a common English and Irish surname and a masculine given name derived from the Norman family “de Warenne”, a reference to a place called Varenne, a hamlet near Arques-la-Bataille, along the river Varenne in Normandy. The river name is thought to be derived from the continental Old Celtic Var- / Ver- "water, river", with a Germanic influence on the initial V- > W- after Warinna, from the Proto-Germanic war-, meaning "to protect or defend".

Spanish and Portuguese: nickname for a thin person, from Spanish, Portuguese delgado ‘slender’ (Latin delicatus ‘dainty’, ‘exquisite’, a derivative of deliciae ‘delight’, ‘joy’).

Marian is a given name, either derived from Maria (female) or Marius (male). In Slovak, and sometimes in Czech, the name is spelled Marián. The Hebrew meaning of Marian is "the precious one" or "unique" from the word "Mariam".

Portuguese and Spanish: habitational name from any of the towns called Ramos, in Portugal and Spain. Portuguese and Spanish: from the plural of ramo ‘branch’ (Latin ramus), a topographic name for someone who lived in a thickly wooded area.

De León or de León or De Leon is a Spanish origin surname, often toponymic, in which case it may possibly indicate an ultimate family origin in the Kingdom of León or the later Province of León.

The name Beatrice is a girl's name of Italian, Latin origin meaning "she who brings happiness; blessed". Beatrice is derived from Beatrix, a Latin name meaning "she who brings happiness." In the earliest sources it is also recorded as Viatrix, meaning "voyager", so there is some weight in both meanings.

The name Morgan is of Welsh origin and means "white sea." It is derived from the Welsh elements mor, meaning “sea” and cant, “circle.”

Originating from Ancient Greek, the meaning of Vanessa is 'butterfly'. It does, however, translate differently in other languages. In Hebrew, the name instead translates to 'star'. However, in the Holy Bible, the name Vanessa means 'goddess of the night'.

From Sino-Korean 靜 (jeong) meaning "quiet, still, gentle" or 貞 (jeong) meaning "virtuous, chaste, loyal", as well as other characters that are pronounced similarly. It usually occurs in combination with another character, though it is sometimes used as a stand-alone name

Hanan is of Japanese and Arabic origin. It is used mainly in Arabic. Arabic origin: It is derived literally from the word hanan with the meaning 'tenderness'. Hanan is Japanese Girl name and meaning of this name is "flower child".

Shepherd, as its name suggests, is an occupational name for someone employed to tend and watch over sheep. Its origins are the Old English sceap meaning “sheep” and hierde meaning “herdsman.”

#tag game #long post #this is so fun lmao #deputy elenore parker #captain emily parker #daniel seed #margo seed #warren armstrong #marian ramos de león #bea morgan #vanessa v jeong #oc: hanan shepard

[city-of-ladies]

Eleanor of Arborea - Warrior queen and legislator 

Eleanor (1340-1404) was the daughter of the judge of Arborea in Sardinia, an island of the Mediterranean Sea, located west of the Italian Peninsula. Medieval Sardinia was divided into Judicates, each governed by an independent prince or “Judge”. Arborea was the population’s defender against invasions. Eleanor reportedly showed skill in the use of weaponry as she grew up. 

She married the nobleman Brancaleone Doria in order to secure an alliance with a powerful family. They had two sons together. Eleanor showed political acumen and made an alliance with the Doge of Genoa. Eleanor’s brother, Ugone, became the next judge of Arborea and began to fight against Peter IV of Aragon, who was trying to impose his authority over the island. 

In 1383, Ugone and his daughter were killed by conspirators. Since ancient Sardinian law allowed women to rule, Eleanor proclaimed herself judge of Arborea.

She sent her husband to Spain to tell the king of Aragon that she wasn’t going to let him pose an obstacle. Peter IV took Brancaleone hostage in retaliation and asked Eleanor to send him her son and said that he would send an army against her if she refused. 

Brancaleone agreed to the terms, but Eleanor didn’t. She didn’t listen to her husband who told her to give up and readied herself to take arms. She toured the whole island, visited the magistrates and promised tax exemptions in exchange for oaths of fealty. Thousands of soldiers answered her call. 

For two years, Eleonor led a military campaign against the king of Aragon. She was reportedly a brilliant commander and there are local legends and written accounts of her military prowess. She tried to bribe servants and guards to allow her husband to escape from prison, but her plan failed. She then turned to negotiation. However, Peter IV died while a peace treaty was still discussed. 

Her son Frederico died in 1387. Eleanor ultimately managed to negotiate a peace treaty and her husband was released. In 1392, a rebellion arose in Sardinia, but Eleanor quelled it. Eleanor then decided that it was time to restore order. She thus revised and expanded a law code begun by her father and enacted the Carta de Logu (charter of Law), a legal code containing 198 chapters.

Eleanor proclaimed that all men were equal in front of the law. She also protected women, especially as far as the punishments for rape was concerned. Indeed, rapists had to chose between paying an incredibly high fine to the state or to have a foot cut off. Since she enjoyed falconry, she also made sure to protect the falcons on the Island. Her name was later given to the “Falco Eleonorae” who lives on Sardinia’s Northwestern coast.

Eleonor died in 1404 and Arborea fell into decline until the Spanish invasion of Sardinia in 1420. Her Carta de Logu remained in use on the island until 1827. Today, she’s remembered as a brilliant legislator and a warrior queen, a heroine who fought to secure Sardinia’s independence. 

Here’s the link to my Ko-Fi if you want to support me.

Bibliography: 

Allaire Gloria, “Eleanora of Arborea”, in: Higham Robin, Pennington Reina (ed.), Amazons to fighter pilots, biographical dictionary of military women, vol.1

Berri Giovanni, Enciclopedia popolare italiana

Lalli Virginia, Women in law

#Eleanor of arborea #history #women in history #14th century #sardinian history #sardinia #italy #italian history #warrior women #warrior queens #badass women #middle ages #medieval women #medieval history #historyedit #perioddramaedit #women warriors #feminism #historyblr #edit #women's history #moodboard #history moodboard

[autumnsnuggling]

How You Make My Heart Sing

For @rockmarina and the trans community. An absolutely massive thanks to @dewitty1, @secretlycrazyhummingbird, @glittering-git, and @eva-eleanore for making this fic a reality, and of course to @hptransfest for running the fest!

“Good morning, honeybun.”

The words, sickly sweet and singsonged, rumble through you as you cling to the last tendrils of sleep. Atop his chest, you scowl and groan, pulling the covers up higher. He—the bastard—snickers, and moments later, the curtains pull themselves open. Yelping, you burrow further into your cocoon, kicking him as he giggles.

“Prick,” you grunt into him. But when wonderful, carefree laughter erupts, unbidden, fuzziness blooms. Like a wave breaking on the shore, it engulfs you; your toes curl. As the backs of his fingers caress the fine, patchy stubble on your chin, your heart flutters. 

Giving a long-suffering sigh, you finally lift your head, immediately falling into a sparkling emerald sea so beautiful it steals your breath. Insolent as ever, he seizes your moment of weakness and captures your mouth—hot, firm, dizzying. 

“Hi handsome,” he murmurs, possessive against your still-parted lips. Fireworks ignite in your chest. 

“Affection, Potter?” you scoff, breathlessly. “Disgusting.” 

Even so, as chuckles tickle your cheek, you grin. 

*

He stands before you, holding it, offering it, and your mouth runs dry. 

“Do you want to try?” he asks, that patient, gentle murmur sending shivers down your spine. And of course you do—he knows you do—but still you can barely speak, can barely breathe past the flurry of butterflies.

After your hard swallow, your graceless shrug, he drops a feather-light kiss to your bare shoulder and begins. 

Each step is familiar yet foreign, a process long studied, long envied, but never dared attempted. Until now. Now, when layer by layer, buttons fasten, fabric swishes, creases smooth. As the sun threatens to fight through the clouds, it grows; excitement, pride. Belonging.

Finally, his hands pause, his eyes glint, and with bated breath, you peek. 

You aren’t prepared for the air being knocked from your chest, for tears springing to your eyes.

“It—it fits,” you manage, gulping hard, eyes glued to your reflection. He kisses the shell of your ear.

“And you’re stunning it in, my prince.” 

‘Prince,’ you echo, staring at the figure in front of you—the figure that is you—and dare to believe him.

“I think you mean ‘My King’,” you fail to smirk, voice quivering.

“But of course,” he chuckles, falling into a bow worthy of a hippogriff. “Pray forgive me, my King.”

“Hmm...” You marvel once more at the way the suit narrows your hips, broadens your shoulders. “Maybe I’ll pardon you, just this once.” 

“I’m humbled by your everlasting grace.” 

“As you should be.”

As he gives a laugh akin only to a pig, dazzling sun ravages the world. You beam.

A thumb sweeps back and forth across your ankle, soft, tingling, as he warms your feet in his lap. You fight the shiver that creeps up your leg, but still his lip twists into a knowing smirk. 

“Enjoying your light reading?” He quirks an eyebrow at the heavy, ancient tome open on your knees as he turns a page of his sci-fi novel. You stick your tongue out at him and he snorts. Heathen. 

“You just wouldn't understand, Potter, just like the people who always scoff at Fire Seeds, when they’re actually fascinating. Did you know that without the interaction between them and the Chizpurfle Carapace, the Antidote to Uncommon Poisons would be utterly useless? Or that the properties of Lobalug venom are extraordinary, too? I’d love to be able to harvest them one day but they’re so protected, I wonder if I’d ever be able to convince McNally to get me a permit… Oh! And I never realised that the Bundim—what?” 

“Nothing,” he shakes his head, eyes twinkling as a nauseatingly genuine smile of adoration tugs at his lips. “I just like listening to your voice. It suits you.” 

It cracks mortifyingly when you breathe an ‘Oh’, and your cheeks burn. But when he presses his forehead to yours, still vibrating with giggles, he draws your eyes back to his.

“Welcome to puberty, handsome.” 

*

Thick, heavy rain splashes at the windows as steam wafts from the pan, curling your hair. As the Wireless warbles in the background, you hum out of tune and unashamed, eyes slipping closed to the pitter-pattering melody.

“Boo,” he whispers, breath tickling your ear as arms capture you; they quiver with laughter as you jump.

“Pest.” You resume stirring pointedly. 

“But I’m your pest,” he murmurs, low and smug, hands slipping beneath your jumper. 

“Ah! S—stop it,” you squirm, spattering sauce everywhere as he brushes sensitive spots. But he merely giggles and presses closer, cupping warm, soft hands around your ribs, your shoulders, your chest. 

Your new, flat chest.

“Gorgeous,” he purrs into your hair, soft, electric, and for a long moment, your breath stutters as joy—molten, frenzied, wild—drowns the roar of the wind. 

“S—shameless flirt,” you tremble eventually.

“And you love it.” He grins. You swallow.

“Merlin help me, I do.”

Skin rippling, you cling to him, soaring with the melody of your hearts, dinner forgotten.

*

Eyes follow you from the sofa as you flit from room to room, a tedious glimmer in them. Hunting for your other shoe, you mutter threats under your breath. 

“Something wrong, snookums?” he asks, head quirked in mock innocence. 

“Fuck you, Potter,” you grouse, diving back to the wardrobe for the millionth time. 

You deserve this, you know, for calling his hands ‘ape-like’ and ‘loutish’ the last time he tried to help you. But that doesn’t mean you’ll admit it. Still, when you’ve searched, hunted, and scoured every inch and still not found the blasted thing, your resolve wavers.

“... Potter?” You whine from your spot on the floor, cursing the answering chuckle. But when footsteps halt and the sparkly platform boot appears, you grin.

“Were you hiding this just so I’d ask, you swine?” 

“No.” He balances you as you wobble—noble git. “You kicked it over the end of the sofa after our last night out.” 

Pinned by that superior look of his, you need to hex his face. 

“I hate you,” you sulk, summoning your wallet and keys and turning on your heel. Though he sniggers, a hand around your wrist traps you.

“You’re forgetting something.” 

A pencil between his fingers beckons, dark and sultry, and his eyes spark as you lick your lips. With a deep breath, a jittery stomach, you grasp it, dare to do it—be that man—and draw your wings. 

“Better?” you ask, tugging uselessly at your drainpipe jeans. The eyeliner, heavy and thick, makes you shiver, weightless, but still your heart quickens for the briefest of moments under his sharp gaze. 

“Perfect,” he growls, and claims your waist, your mouth, your breath. 

*

Soft snores tease your ear as the credits roll on the stupid Muggle contraption Potter insisted on contaminating your home with. Just for a moment, you pause, memorising the way his glasses stand askew from his sun-kissed nose. 

“Bedtime, Potter,” you whisper, grazing his cheek with your thumb. Lips clumsily chase your fingers. “Up you get.”

“Nooooo,” he moans, pouting in a way he learned from you; it shouldn’t be adorable.

“Sleep on the sofa without me then.” You smirk. “It’s my bed anyway.”

“It is not!” 

“It is if you don't come with me.”

“Wanker,” he scowls. Then, peeking over the top of the blanket, “Carry me?”

Your eyebrow quirks, and you scoff derisively, but he beckons with grabby hands and puppy eyes. Inexplicably, your mouth twitches.

“Oh for Circe's sake,” you sigh. He cheers like a child. “If I drop you, you're not holding on tightly enough.”

Like a Bowtruckle to a branch, he latches on, snicker muffled in your shoulder as you make your way upstairs. And though he grows heavier with every step, no longer do your arms shake as they used to, nor burn from strain; a gentle, glowing fire warms your stomach.

“Mm, thank you, my strong, handsome man,” he nuzzles. Your heart somersaults.

“Don’t get used to it, you great lump.” You dump him on the bed, sniggering at his yelp.

“Bastard.” 

“Takes one to know one, Potter.”

“You know, I forget how much of a knob you are sometimes.”

“You’d forget your head if it wasn’t attached to your shoulders.”

His laugh, hot and sweet, melts your insides as you crawl in beside him, find his chest. Arms curling around you, they settle just above your still-too-prominent-hips. 

“Goodnight, Harry,” you sigh, letting your eyes drift close.

“Goodnight, Draco.” 

Though sleep fights to claim you, your name—a love song, a declaration, a promise—makes you glow. 

Also on AO3

#drarry #my writing #drarry squad #hptransfest #hp trans fest 2021 #trans draco malfoy #ftm draco #trans draco #trans hp #thanks for reading #autumnsnugglingwrites

[xmanicpanicx]

Mammoth List of Feminist/Girl Power Books (200 + Books)

Lists of Real, Amazing Women Throughout History

Bad Girls Throughout History: 100 Remarkable Women Who Changed the World by Ann Shen

Good Night Stories for Rebel Girls by Elena Favilli & Francesca Cavallo

Good Night Stories for Rebel Girls 2 by Elena Favilli & Francesca Cavallo

Good Night Stories for Rebel Girls: 100 Immigrant Women Who Changed the World by Elena Favilli & Francesca Cavallo

Brazen: Rebel Ladies Who Rocked the World by Pénélope Bagieu, Montana Kane (Translator)

Rejected Princesses: Tales of History's Boldest Heroines, Hellions, and Heretics by Jason Porath

Tough Mothers: Amazing Stories of History’s Mightiest Matriarchs by Jason Porath

Women in Science: 50 Fearless Pioneers Who Changed the World by Rachel Ignotofsky

Bygone Badass Broads: 52 Forgotten Women Who Changed the World by Mackenzi Lee

Wonder Women: 25 Innovators, Inventors, and Trailblazers Who Changed History by Sam Maggs

The Little Book of Feminist Saints by Julia Pierpont

Rad Women Worldwide: Artists and Athletes, Pirates and Punks, and Other Revolutionaries Who Shaped History by Kate Schatz

Warrior Women: 3000 Years of Courage and Heroism by Robin Cross & Rosalind Miles

Women Who Dared: 52 Stories of Fearless Daredevils, Adventurers, and Rebels by Linda Skeers & Livi Gosling 

100 Nasty Women of History by Hannah Jewell

The Warrior Queens by Antonia Fraser

Sea Queens: Women Pirates Around the World by Jane Yolen

The Book of Gutsy Women: Favorite Stories of Courage and Resilience by Hillary Rodham Clinton & Chelsea Clinton 

Fight Like a Girl: 50 Feminists Who Changed the World by Laura Barcella

Samurai Women 1184–1877 by Stephen Turnbull

A Black Woman Did That by Malaika Adero

Tales from Behind the Window by Edanur Kuntman

Amazons, Abolitionists, and Activists: A Graphic History of Women's Fight for Their Rights by Mikki Kendall

Witches and Pagans: Women in European Folk Religion, 700-1100 by Max Dashu

Mad and Bad: Real Heroines of the Regency by Bea Koch

Modern HERstory: Stories of Women and Nonbinary People Rewriting History by Blair Imani

Individual and Group Portraits of Real, Amazing Women Throughout History

Alice Paul and the Fight for Women's Rights: From the Vote to the Equal Rights Amendment by Deborah Kops

Vanguard: How Black Women Broke Barriers, Won the Vote, and Insisted on Equality for All by Martha S. Jones

Ruth Bader Ginsburg: A Life by Jane Sherron De Hart

The Firebrand and the First Lady: Portrait of a Friendship: Pauli Murray, Eleanor Roosevelt, and the Struggle for Social Justice by Patricia Bell-Scott

I Am Malala: The Story of the Girl Who Stood Up for Education and Was Shot by the Taliban by Malala Yousafzai, Christina Lamb

Life Undercover: Coming of Age in the CIA by Amaryllis Fox

Native Country of the Heart: A Memoir by Cherríe L. Moraga

The Soul of a Woman by Isabel Allende

Hidden Figures by Margot Lee Shetterly

Ashley's War: The Untold Story of a Team of Women Soldiers on the Special Ops Battlefield by Gayle Tzemach Lemmon

Alice Diamond and the Forty Elephants: The Female Gang That Terrorised London by Brian McDonald

Women Against the Raj: The Rani of Jhansi Regiment by Joyce Chapman Lebra

Girls to the Front: The True Story of the Riot Grrrl Revolution by Sara Marcus

The Amazons: Lives and Legends of Warrior Women Across the Ancient World by Adrienne Mayor

Rise of the Rocket Girls: The Women Who Propelled Us, from Missiles to the Moon to Mars by Nathalia Holt

The Women of WWII (Non-Fiction)

Women Heroes of World War II: 26 Stories of Espionage, Sabotage, Resistance, and Rescue by Kathryn J. Atwood

Skyward: The Story of Female Pilots in WWII by Sally Deng

The Women with Silver Wings: The Inspiring True Story of the Women Airforce Service Pilots of World War II by Katherine Sharp Landdeck

The Unwomanly Face of War: An Oral History of Women in World War II by Svetlana Alexievich, Richard Pevear (Translation), Larissa Volokhonsky (Translation)

Les Parisiennes: How the Women of Paris Lived, Loved, and Died Under Nazi Occupation by Anne Sebba

To Serve My Country, to Serve My Race: The Story of the Only African-American Wacs Stationed Overseas During World War II by Brenda L. Moore

Standing Up Against Hate: How Black Women in the Army Helped Change the Course of WWII by Mary Cronk Farrell

Sisters and Spies: The True Story of WWII Special Agents Eileen and Jacqueline Nearne by Susan Ottaway

A Woman of No Importance: The Untold Story of the American Spy Who Helped Win World War II by Sonia Purnell

The White Mouse by Nancy Wake

Code Name Hélène by Ariel Lawhon

Code Girls: The Untold Story of the American Women Code Breakers Who Helped Win World War II by Liza Mundy

Tomorrow to be Brave: A Memoir of the Only Woman Ever to Serve in the French Foreign Legion by Susan Travers & Wendy Holden

Pure Grit: How WWII Nurses in the Pacific Survived Combat and Prison Camp by Mary Cronk Farrell

Sisterhood of Spies by Elizabeth P. McIntosh

Spy Princess: The Life of Noor Inayat Khan by Shrabani Basu

Women in the Holocaust by Dalia Ofer

The Light of Days: The Untold Story of Women Resistance Fighters in Hitler's Ghettos by Judy Batalion

Night Witches: The Untold Story of Soviet Women in Combat by Bruce Myles

The Soviet Night Witches: Brave Women Bomber Pilots of World War II by Pamela Jain Dell

A Thousand Sisters: The Heroic Airwomen of the Soviet Union in World War II by Elizabeth Wein

A Dance with Death: Soviet Airwomen in World War II by Anne Noggle

Avenging Angels: The Young Women of the Soviet Union's WWII Sniper Corps by Lyuba Vinogradova

The Women of WWII (Fiction)

Among the Red Stars by Gwen C. Katz

Night Witches by Kathryn Lasky

Night Witches by Mirren Hogan

Night Witch by S.J. McCormack

Flygirl by Sherri L. Smith

Daughters of the Night Sky by Aimie K. Runyan

The Lost Girls of Paris by Pam Jenoff

Code Name Verity series by Elizabeth Wein

Front Lines trilogy by Michael Grant

The Alice Network by Kate Quinn

All-Girl Teams (Fiction)

The Seafire trilogy by Natalie C. Parker

Elysium Girls by Kate Pentecost

The Good Luck Girls by Charlotte Nicole Davis

The Effigies trilogy by Sarah Raughley

Guardians of the Dawn series by S. Jae-Jones

Wolf-Light by Yaba Badoe

Undead Girl Gang by Lily Anderson

Burned and Buried by Nino Cipri

This Is What It Feels Like by Rebecca Barrow

The Wild Ones: A Broken Anthem for a Girl Nation by Nafiza Azad

We Rule the Night by Claire Eliza Bartlett

Tigers, Not Daughters by Samantha Mabry

The All-Girl Filling Station's Last Reunion by Fannie Flagg

Saving CeeCee Honeycutt by Beth Hoffman

Bad Girls Never Say Die by Jennifer Mathieu

The Secret Life of Prince Charming by Deb Caletti

Kamikaze Girls by Novala Takemoto, Akemi Wegmüller (Translator)

The Island of Sea Women by Lisa See

The Passion of Dolssa by Julie Berry

The Scapegracers by Hannah Abigail Clarke

Sisters in Sanity by Gayle Forman

The Scandalous Sisterhood of Prickwillow Place by Julie Berry

The Southern Book Club's Guide to Slaying Vampires by Grady Hendrix

The Lost Girls by Sonia Hartl

Hell's Belles series by Sarah MacLean

Jackdaws by Ken Follett

The Farmerettes by Gisela Tobien Sherman

A Sisterhood of Secret Ambitions by Sheena Boekweg

Feminist Retellings

Stepsister by Jennifer Donnelly

Poisoned by Jennifer Donnelly

Girls Made of Snow and Glass by Melissa Bashardoust

The Girl Who Fell Beneath The Sea by Axie Oh

Kissing the Witch: Old Tales in New Skins by Emma Donoghue

Doomed by Laura Pohl

The Seventh Bride by T. Kingfisher

The Boneless Mercies by April Genevieve Tucholke

Seven Endless Forests by April Genevieve Tucholke

The Queens of Innis Lear by Tessa Gratton

A Thousand Nights by E.K. Johnston

Kate Crackernuts by Katharine M. Briggs

Legendborn series by Tracy Deonn

One for All by Lillie Lainoff

Feminist Dystopian and Horror Fiction

The Handmaid’s Tale by Margaret Atwood

The Grace Year by Kim Liggett

Sawkill Girls by Claire Legrand

Godshot by Chelsea Bieker

Women and Girls in Comedy 

Crying Laughing by Lance Rubin

Stand Up, Yumi Chung by Jessica Kim

This Will Be Funny Someday by Katie Henry

Unscripted by Nicole Kronzer

Pretty Funny for a Girl by Rebecca Elliot

Bossypants by Tina Fey

We Killed: The Rise of Women in American Comedy by Yael Kohen

The Girl in the Show: Three Generations of Comedy, Culture, and Feminism by Anna Fields

Trans Women

Redefining Realness: My Path to Womanhood, Identity, Love & So Much More by Janet Mock

Nemesis series by April Daniels

American Transgirl by Faith DaBrooke

Tranny: Confessions of Punk Rock's Most Infamous Anarchist Sellout by Laura Jane Grace

A Safe Girl to Love by Casey Plett

Gracefully Grayson by Ami Polonsky

Fierce Femmes and Notorious Liars by Kai Cheng Thom

Becoming Nicole: The Transformation of an American Family by Amy Ellis Nutt

George by Alex Gino

The Witch Boy series by Molly Ostertag

Uncomfortable Labels: My Life as a Gay Autistic Trans Woman by Laura Kate Dale

She's Not There: A Life in Two Genders by Jennifer Finney Boylan

An Anthology of Fiction by Trans Women of Color by Ellyn Peña

Wandering Son by Takako Shimura

Stone Butch Blues by Leslie Feinberg

Feminist Poetry

Women Are Some Kind of Magic trilogy by Amanda Lovelace

Wild Embers: Poems of Rebellion, Fire and Beauty by Nikita Gill

Fierce Fairytales: Poems and Stories to Stir Your Soul by Nikita Gill

Great Goddesses: Life Lessons from Myths and Monsters by Nikita Gill

The Girl and the Goddess by Nikita Gill

A Bound Woman Is a Dangerous Thing: The Incarceration of African American Women from Harriet Tubman to Sandra Bland by DaMaris B. Hill

Feminist Philosophy and Facts

The Creation of Patriarchy by Gerda Lerner

The Creation of Feminist Consciousness: From the Middle Ages to Eighteen-Seventy by Gerda Lerner

Misogyny: The World's Oldest Prejudice by Jack Holland

White Tears/Brown Scars: How White Feminism Betrays Women of Color by Ruby Hamad

We Should All Be Feminists by Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie

Dear Ijeawele, or a Feminist Manifesto in Fifteen Suggestions by Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie

Colonize This!: Young Women of Color on Today's Feminism by Bushra Rehman

Feminism is for Everybody: Passionate Politics by bell hooks

Here We Are: Feminism for the Real World by Kelly Jensen

The Equality Illusion by Kat Banyard

White Feminism: From the Suffragettes to Influencers and Who They Leave Behind by Koa Beck

Everyday Sexism by Laura Bates

I Have the Right To by Chessy Prout & Jenn Abelson

Feminism and Nationalism in the Third World by Kumari Jayawardena

The Second Sex by Simone de Beauvoir

How to Suppress Women's Writing by Joanna Russ

Invisible No More: Police Violence Against Black Women and Women of Color by Andrea Ritchie

Ain't I a Woman: Black Women and Feminism by bell hooks

Black Feminist Thought: Knowledge, Consciousness, and the Politics of Empowerment by Patricia Hill Collins

But Some of Us Are Brave: All the Women Are White, All the Blacks Are Men: Black Women's Studies by Akasha Gloria Hull, Patricia Bell-Scott, Barbara Smith Women, Race, and Class by Angela Y. Davis This Bridge Called My Back: Writings by Radical Women of Color by Cherríe L. Moraga, Gloria E. Anzaldúa

Half the Sky: Turning Oppression Into Opportunity for Women Worldwide by Nicholas D. Kristof & Sheryl WuDinn

Sister Outsider: Essays and Speeches by Audre Lorde

Bad Feminist by Roxane Gay

Difficult Women by Roxane Gay

Hunger: A Memoir of (My) Body by Roxane Gay

Not That Bad: Dispatches from Rape Culture by Roxane Gay

This Bridge Called My Back: Writings by Radical Women of Color by by Cherríe Moraga & Gloria Anzaldúa

Power Shift: The Longest Revolution by Sally Armstrong

Eloquent Rage: A Black Feminist Discovers Her Superpower by Brittney Cooper

Hood Feminism: Notes from the Women That a Movement Forgot by Mikki Kendall

Had It Coming: What's Fair in the Age of #MeToo? by Robyn Doolittle

She Said: Breaking the Sexual Harassment Story that Helped Ignite a Movement by Jody Kantor & Megan Twohey

#Notyourprincess: Voices of Native American Women by Lisa Charleyboy

Girl Rising: Changing the World One Girl at a Time by Tanya Lee Stone

Dead Blondes and Bad Mothers: Monstrosity, Patriarchy, and the Fear of Female Power by Sady Doyle

Sisterhood is Powerful: An Anthology of Writings from the Women's Liberation Movement by Robin Morgan (Editor)

Girls Make Media by Mary Celeste Kearney

Rock She Wrote: Women Write about Rock, Pop, and Rap by Evelyn McDonnell (Editor)

You Play the Girl: And Other Vexing Stories That Tell Women Who They Are by Carina Chocano

Things We Didn't Talk About When I Was a Girl: A Memoir by Jeannie Vanasco

The Portable Nineteenth-Century African American Women Writers by Henry Louis Gates Jr. (Editor), Hollis Robbins (Editor)

Shrill: Notes from a Loud Woman by Lindy West

A Room of One's Own by Virginia Woolf

Believe Me: How Trusting Women Can Change the World by Jessica Valenti and Jaclyn Friedman Bread Out of Stone: Recollections, Sex, Recognitions, Race, Dreaming, Politics by Dionne Brand

Other General Girl Power/Feminist Awesomeness

The Edge of Anything by Nora Shalaway Carpenter

Kat and Meg Conquer the World by Anna Priemaza

Talk Before Sleep by Elizabeth Berg

The Female of the Species by Mandy McGinnis

Pulp by Robin Talley

Juliet Takes a Breath by Gabby Rivera

How to Save a Life by Sara Zarr

That Summer by Sarah Dessen

Someone Like You by Sarah Dessen

Honey, Baby, Sweetheart by Deb Caletti

The Girl With the Louding Voice by Abi Daré

Mrs. Everything by Jennifer Weiner

Beauty Queens by Libba Bray

Memoirs of a Geisha by Arthur Golden

American Girls by Alison Umminger

Don't Think Twice by Ruth Pennebaker

The Color Purple by Alice Walker

In Love & Trouble: Stories of Black Women by Alice Walker

You Can't Keep a Good Woman Down: Stories by Alice Walker

Wonder Woman: Warbringer by Leigh Bardugo

Sula by Toni Morrison

Rose Sees Red by Cecil Castellucci

A Deadly Education by Naomi Novik

Moxie by Jennifer Mathieu

Rules for Being a Girl by Candace Bushnell & Katie Cotugno

None of the Above by I.W. Gregorio

Little Women by Louisa May Alcott

Orlando by Virginia Woolf

Everything Must Go by Jenny Fran Davis

The House on Olive Street by Robyn Carr

Orange Is the New Black by Piper Kerman

Queens of Geek by Jen Wilde

Lady Luck's Map of Vegas by Barbara Samuel 

Fan the Fame by Anna Priemaza

Puddin' by Julie Murphy

A Heart in a Body in the World by Deb Caletti

Gravity Brings Me Down by Natale Ghent

Snow Flower and the Secret Fan by Lisa See

The Summer of Impossibilities by Rachael Allen

The Dead Girls of Hysteria Hall by Katie Alender

Don't Tell a Soul by Kirsten Miller

After the Ink Dries by Cassie Gustafson Girl, Unframed by Deb Caletti

We Are the Ashes, We Are the Fire by Joy McCullough 

Maybe He Just Likes You by Barbara Dee

Things a Bright Girl Can Do by Sally Nicholls

The Disreputable History of Frankie Landau-Banks by E. Lockhart

Uprising by Margaret Peterson Haddix

The Cure for Dreaming by Cat Winters

Dress Coded by Carrie Firestone

The Prettiest by Brigit Young

Don't Judge Me by Lisa Schroeder

The Roommate by Rosie Danan

Tomboy: A Graphic Memoir by Liz Prince

Surpassing the Love of Men: Romantic Friendship and Love Between Women from the Renaissance to the Present by Lillian Faderman

All the Single Ladies: Unmarried Women and the Rise of an Independent Nation by Rebecca Traister

Paper Girls comic series by Brian K. Vaughan

Heavy Vinyl comic series by Carly Usdin

Please feel free to reblog with more!

#book list #feminism #girl power

[nobodylivingknows]

thoughts on The Starless Sea

I really wanted to like this more than I did - it was a promising idea but it got SO bloated with descriptions and wandering the underworld and interweaving plots that I had to slog through the last third of it. The plot was also trying to be too many things at once and didn't really succeed at any of them.

PROS

- The initial mystery was cool - shy, nerdy Zachary living a modern life, finding his story in an ancient book, finding out maybe the doors are real and maybe there's a secret society associated?? JUICY!

- There were some cool reveals like Mirabel and the Keeper being fate and time, the innkeeper and his love (the moon) being real, Eleanor coming back into the story.

- I also really liked the cozy element of the rooms being tailored to the person, and having the kitchen provide you with delicacies to enjoy. I wish we had a more satisfying reveal about how that magic worked/why it was there beyond 'it was uhh...some bees that can talk.'

- I know people have complained about all the characters being underdeveloped. I obviously would like to have seen more motivation and development out of Zachary and Dorian in particular but I was OK with the rest of the characters being trope-y - it fits into them being characters in a story and blurring the lines between story and reality in the land of the Starless Sea.

CONS

- There were WAY too many platitudes throughout the book. Every chapter it seemed had mysterious, magical phrases like '...but after all.......every lock needs its key' and it's like...cool but unless that relates back to the themes of the story why is it there.

- There were also WAY too many pointless descriptions of settings that were not relevant to the story. It felt like a high school creative writing exercise gone off the rails. You would get things like 'he walked into the room, noticing that lace had been cleverly draped from the balcony to resemble a skull, and the air was perfumed with lilac' -- but then that room would never be revisited again! Like at a certain point we as the reader understand that this is a place filled with mysteries, but some of them have to relate back to the plot. It was especially bothersome because some 'inconsequential' details from the early interspersed stories turned out to be VERY important, so it felt like you had to read carefully for hidden details, but 80% of the setting descriptions were just for fluff and didn't add anything.

- The driving plot was pretty weak, and it starts falling apart basically as soon as Zachary goes underground. I ~think~ the central tension was supposed to be Allegra's quest to destroy the doors, which Zachary discovers as he explores the sea and finds it strangely empty and beginning to crumble. But this was barely communicated amidst all the scenery descriptions, cuts to other stories, brief bits with Dorian and Allegra, etc. We have no sense of Zachary's motivation - does he want to get back to his previous life? Does he want to become a librarian? We also kind of bop along on him on this weird 'quest to find the man lost in time' but have no sense of WHY he agrees to the quest other than being bound by 'being in the story'.

Even more thoughts under the cut:

- I wish the book had utilized Kat and Zachary's mom much more heavily! Incorporate Kat's ability to sleuth sooner in the book, and Love's fortune telling in a way that contributes to the development of the plot rather than the random scene with 'I know he's not dead' at the end.

- I found it extremely difficult to even know where they were physically while in the Sea, which I guess was intentional? They're always escaping one story to another and finding places 'on the edge of time', but I was just confused.

- Going back to the issue of overwrought descriptions of every setting, I was trying to think through why exactly they didn't work. There are other stories with protagonists experiencing a magical world - Alice in Wonderland, Charlie and the Chocolate Factory - where they also describe the setting a lot but it's not tedious. How come this works for Alice and Charlie's stories but not Zachary's? I think it's because even when the characters are lost or exploring, diversions and fanciful things serve to teach you about their character or provide urgency related to their goal. When Alice has tea with the Mad Hatter, it furthers the story *because* she gets sucked in and pulled away from her goal of returning home. When the kids see flavored gum being made in Wonka's factory, we learn something about them from how each of them reacts. Without a clear sense of Zachary's motivation, the way he reacts to fanciful things in the Sea doesn't mean much.

Alternate story arcs I think could have been cool:

- Continue on with the mystery of the Collector's Club - why is there a whole club in place to destroy doors? What if we met a character who used to work for the club but doesn't anymore (besides maybe Dorian) and we could have explored both sides of the arguments for sealing off the Sea vs letting people go through doors

- Zachary explores the sea, and the central plot would be him noticing it's super empty, figuring out how much about librarians and past parties is true, and again grappling with the question of whether to revive it to its former glory - either bringing back lots of librarians to party and enjoy it in secret, or exposing it to the whole world

- Lean even more into the 'living in a story' element - maybe save the reveal of the Starless Sea for much later, and have Zachary on a quest to find out about Sweet Sorrows and other books in the real world - who wrote them, why people are being cagey about them, whether there are others who also found their life story in a book. Then he and these people could discover that the Sea is real and that they are actually living in a story - that every time you read a story, you create a world that is real as can be to the characters living in it.

#the starless sea #book reviews #bookblr #oc #erin morgenstern