#i wish there weren't pages and pages of poetry you will never read and a hundred saved drafts i'll never publish.

[girlsmoonsandstars]

[glassrowboat]

Daydream in a Nightmare

Authors note: I read a soulmate au where with dream sharing. Everytime you fall asleep you and your SM would meet in a world that would reflect your consciousness and who you were. So down below are the boys and what I think the places their dreams would depict.

Mondstadt

Diluc: The cathedral. His mom, back when she was alive, used to play during service and afterwards Diluc ran over greeting her with the biggest smile, asking her to play him one more song. She never failed to. Maybe that's why there's always a gentle melody playing whenever you see him as he rests his fingers over the same white tiles, simply trying to remember how to play.

Kaeya: The Dawn Winery. Or at least parts of it. Behind closed doors there's the scent of grass, of dirt, and the faintest smell of ash. He says it's simply the vineyard that in the real world would be right outside, but he knows well as he pulls your hand from the doorknob that it's ruins of a fallen nation haunting him right on the other side.

Albedo: Glass walls. A maze of mirrors and reflections. If you ever have stopped to bother to count between Albedo’s musings as he shares with you the secrets of the world, you'd notice that for some reason he always has more reflections in the walls around you than of your own figure. Like there's more of him than there is of you.

Venti: Old Mondstadt. Back before the revolution, back when there were people in the streets wishing their God weren't so unjust, but in his dreams that wall of spiraling wind is never there. A warped perception of a life he wished to have lived as he sits in your lap not as Venti the bard, but a wind sprite trying to bury into your clothes for warmth. Just don't call him pipsqueek or he'll try and bite your fingers. Playfully. You think.

Liyue

Zhongli: A place that no longer exists, one torn away by this world during the archon war. It's unlike him not to comment on a place, a trinket, an item, as you pick something up and fiddle with it, but this place he never goes into full detail on. However, he will tell you all about the artisanship of the table you two are sharing tea over.

Baizhu: His home back in Chenyu Vale, back before the illness hit his village, back before his parents passed away. Just a modest home that shows signs of being truly well lived in and loved. Mindlessly while you two talk he'll be cleaning the place, just the way he always does at the pharmacy. Though it does help give him something to fill the silence. It turns out he's a lot more used to Changsheng chiming in with comments than he thought. He just hopes you two get along when the time to meet in person finally comes about.

Ga ming: A festival. There's water kicking up at everyone's feet, up to everyones ankles as people with their face covered in all manner of masks walk you both by. Ga ming would pull you along from booth to booth, trying his best to win prizes despite the fact you both know they'll be gone by the time you wake.

Xiao: A Chinese pavilion in the sky. You walk among the clouds as you follow the path of the street, looking over the accents that seem somehow both rich in color and dull, muddied all at the same time. Something you've noticed from his dreams compared to yours, his always have a lingering black fog creeping in at the corner of your eyes. It makes you feel like someone else is in this world with you, like there's eyes waiting to do more than just watch.

Inazuma

Kazooha: A meadow. The wind passes you both by, stirring up pages of books you two sit reading in silence. You can't help but wonder if these are all books he's read before, especially the ones that wax poetry or something else. His thoughts, perhaps? Maybe Kazuha's very own writings? But that matters little as his head is resting on your shoulder as you try to catch words between the fluttering sheets of paper.

Itto: A kabuki play. It always ends up in you two hiding away in the back room where the performers would get ready before getting back out on stage for the next act. You would see the brightest of colors, richest of fabrics, and practiced movements so fine tuned that you can't understand why Itto is so focused on taking the makeup on the vanity in the back simply so he can paint your face with red marks just like his. To each their own you suppose, and who are you to complain when it means drawing hearts on his arm when Itto isn't paying attention?

Gorou: A tea house. It's a small place, simple, but certainly not lacking charm as Gorou pours you a cup. At first the fact you could actually taste the rich herbs on your tongue in this dreamscape threw you off, but now it's just another part of this odd reality. But saying that, the first time you spat out the drink he offered as soon as the bitter taste hit you. Apparently he never expected you to not already be used to green tea. The poor fella was apologizing for the rest of the night, ears laid flat on his head and tail tucked between his legs. It's okay though, you made it even by trying to give him dog treats. It was you having to beg for forgiveness then.

Thoma: It was different this time. No glowing blue flowers and a forest that you two would stroll through mindlessly while chatting for hours. No, this time Thoma was sitting on a wooden platform below a giant stone statue. Intriguing, yes, but mattered little compared to the rope burns around his wrist. He tried to tell you not to worry about it. That it was an accident. But that mattered little as your lips pressed to the red, irritated skin and he gave you a strained smile. You knew better than to ask about it more from there.

Ayato: It's ever changing. It's like he is constantly thinking of something whenever He falls asleep and it reflects in his dreams. Once it was a Japanese styled room the next it was some room in Fontaine's architecture. But it's always a bedroom. A place of relaxation as Ayato buries his head in your lap like it was a pillow. He'll whine about being overworked until you're tempted to pull on his hair just to make the man shut up for once, but last time you did that it led to the bed being used for a lot more than just rest. For now just pat his head and let him vent, the man needs it.

Sumeru

Kaveh: A sketch brought to life from his mothers blueprints. One he saw his mother sketching back when Kaveh was a boy and she would let him sit on her lap, let him comment on the drawings. She would always find some way to incorporate his addictions into the sketch. Nowadays he knows the building that was actually constructed in the end to be simpler, duller than the one his mother wanted, but in his dreams with you it stands tall and proud.

Al Haitham: An attic. It's dusty and it clearly had a hole in the roof that was covered over by some wooden planks and nails. A patch work job that needs to be fixed but if you ever take the time to bother with it while Al Haitham sits in an old rocking chair covered by a quilt reading the night away it will only be there the next dream cycle. It pisses you off. He pisses you off. All nonchalance and an apathetic look even as you plop yourself in his lap and take that book away. And what pisses you off even more? How he dares to call you needy as he holds you close. It's best to ignore the fact he started reading over your shoulder.

Tighnari: Pardis Dhyai. He'll sit on the walkway watching you kick the water of the ponds around, paying no mind to when you splash at him. Not anymore at least. He's learned quickly if he makes a snarky comment you'll give one back and it'll go on and on until somehow it ends in him getting dragged into the pond with you. Both dripping algae filled water as he wondered what gods made this numbskull his mate.

Cyno: Lambad's Tavern. Everytime he would come back from treks in the desert he would go there, get a drink, and play a round of cards with whoever was willing. It was a pattern. Work, work, rest, and more work. But now he didn't have to constantly be on work mode as he sat with you in the old booth shuffling cards as he tried to explain to you how TCG works. So far everytime you lose you've thrown those elemental dice and him, and with a smile he lets them hit him in the head despite being fully able to dodge them. His soulmate is such a sore loser.

Wanderer: Shakkei Pavilion. He hates it. Hates that this is the place his unconscious has chosen to sink onto so stubbornly. His wooden fingers would slide over the paintings depicting Scaramouche’s past that has now been severed from him in everyone's eyes but Nahida and the Traveler. If you knew, would you still hold his hand? Would you still trace the details of his joints and comment that you find his pretty face such a stark contrast to his sharp words? He's afraid to find out, the idea that you might be his fourth betrayal always lingering in the back of his mind.

Fontaine

Neuvillette: Under the water where the currents would carry stray bits of seaweed and fish swimming past. The first time you shared a dream with him here he had to calm you down as instinctively you held your breath, taking your hands in his and assuring you if he can talk like this, you can suck in air just as well. It took some time getting used to, but now he watches as you grab starfish off the ocean floor and bring them over to him like a prize to be presented. This is what humans must be like Neuvillette tells himself as you braid them into his hair.

Worcestershire sauce: A home. A nice one at that. Big, had decent furnishings, pictures of kids hung up on the wall. If you listened closely enough you could even hear children playing outside from the cracked open windows that showed the brightest sky outside. Wriothesly would walk behind you as you would watch the grass blowing in the wind, not saying a word as he rested his chin on top of your head. He never thought he'd be back here again. The very place made him feel sick to his stomach, but with you? It was bearable. Even as you tried to grab his handcuffs from him.

Snezhnaya

Childe: His childhood home. Back before the renovations he bought for the place with his money as a harbinger, back before the redecorating of rooms to fit more children, and back to what the house was like when he was just a boy yet to fall into the abyss. Back when everything was simpler. He would pick up toys that have gone missing, never to be seen again and stare in wonder how it all is exactly how he remembers it. It makes it so much easier to be Ajax with you, rather than Tartaglia.

Dottore: The hospital he was working in when trying to help Eleazar patients. For the life of him does he hate it, being back in the desert always having to tip his shoes out of sand that never seems to fully clear off. It doesn't help you try and pour sand down his shirt, but in a way he supposes it's better you two stay out here under that blistering sun than you going inside to be met with the smell of death. No, you don't need to know about that side of him just yet.

Pantalone: His office. It always makes it hard to tell at first if he's awake, not when the same scene greets him either way. You always joke about him being married to his work and you're the mistress in this relationship. At this point he counts on the comment as soon as his eyes flutter open and he's greeted with the sight of you sitting on the desk he's been using as a pillow. Still, he can never help the genuine smile at seeing you once again.

Captain: A flower field. The snowdrops peek out from under the fluffy blanket of white powder, crunching under every step he takes. Even in his dreams the cold of Snezhnaya is ever present, ever biting. It only makes sense you are shivering behind him even as he lets you steal his cloak that is more of a blanket on you than anything. This field, he knows it well, knows that what waters these flowers is more blood than anything else, but that matters little as he wraps his arms around you. Maybe he can find a way to dream you a proper jacket.

Pierro: A grand hall. It reminds you of the way ballrooms are described in romance stories as the couple depicted would dance the night away. Columns so high you have to tilt your head back just to see where they meet the ceiling covered in paintings you've never seen before. That is until Pierro steps into your view. He always offered his hand to you before you could ask, and as your fingers interlocked he would tell you about them. Always ready to answer your questions. It meant someone was curious about a part of his long lost nation. So, of course, he was always happy to share.

Scaramouche: A never ending fire. It's a small shack, engulfed by flames that never seem to dwindle or burn out the wood it feeds on. Like this place was stuck in time in his mind. He doesn't talk to you, not any more than a sharp shut up. The only time that glare he showed you disappeared is when you pulled your hand back from the curious fire with a hiss, not expecting it to actually hurt in this fake reality. For a moment you could have sworn he took a step towards you, but he never came any closer than that as he hissed at you to be careful. Dumb mortals should at least know not to burn themselves.

[spacexseven]

forgive me for spamming bUT dazai who breaks into yan!reader’s room and looks thru their diary. it’s all about him, just pages and pages of observations, his schedule for the day, ravings about their love for him, etc. he just finds it so cute, he makes it a habit to regularly check in to read it !!

no need to apologize :> i love yan reader and dazai

cw: yandere reader, (dazai isn't much of a yandere but he's definitely creepy), obsessive behavior, stalking, invasion of privacy, breaking in, generally creepy themes

he was just curious, really. nothing more than a harmless little urge to want to know what went on in your mind. you were obvious, sometimes, the way your eyes followed him everywhere, the startled expression when he approached you, the subtle signs—always picking the seat next to him, conveniently having his favorite snacks in your bag, reading the same books he read—those were entertaining enough, but sometimes...

sometimes he wished he could just peer inside your head.

what did you really feel? why did you like him? what else did you do, apart from doing a very bad attempt at staying hidden while stalking him, and staring at his (admittedly, very few) messages to you?

the only way to find out, obviously, was to pay you a visit—when you weren't home. not like you would mind, right?

while scouring through your room, he finds on your desk a seemingly normal notebook. it looked like you had just haphazardly thrown it onto your desk, teteering over the edge dangerously as dazai picked it up. once he opens it, he realizes it's a gold mine of information.

all about him.

honestly, some of the things you wrote down here were things even he didn't notice. things like, 'dazai picked up his book twenty-five times today. he must really be interested in it', 'dazai drank water instead of coffee today. he must be trying to cut down on his caffeine,' and the most unexpected, what he identified as love letters to him. just pages and pages of you pouring out your heart and complimenting him in a way he never thought was possible, on everything from his eyes to his fingers to his smile and his voice. it was like nothing about him wasn't perfect to you.

to be honest, he was flattered.

you wrote songs you listened to while thinking of him, lovesick poetry and extremely in-depth and elaborate fantasies, date ideas, gift ideas, books you would reccomend to him, he could almost feel your overwhelming love for him through the pages.

he sees that you bought the same brand of bandages he uses, a coat that looked eerily similar to his, and numerous other little things that reminded you of him. how, he wondered, could someone think of another person so much that it was all their life revolved around? staring at himself in your mirror, he wondered if you'd even be mad to know he invaded your privacy.

some part of him wanted to wait for your return, just to see your reaction, but he decided against it, thinking he would rather stop by more often to read your innermost thoughts again. this was a lot more fun, anyway. and maybe he could learn some things about you this way.

[verena-targaryen-writes]

The Duke and I (Part 1)

(This is fully extracted from book, only Diana's character and Aemond's character belong to me)

The Bridgertons are by far the most prolific family in the upper echelons of society. Such industriousness on the part of the viscountess and the late viscount is commendable, although one can find only banality in their choice of names for their children. Anthony, Benedict, Colin, Diana, Eloise, Francesca, Gregory, and Hyacinth— orderliness is, of course, beneficial in all things, but one would think that intelligent parents would be able to keep their children straight without needing to alphabetize all of their names except one of them.

Furthermore, the sight of the viscountess and all eight of her children in one room is enough to make one fear one is seeing double— or triple— or worse. Never has This Author seen a collection of siblings so ludicrously alike in their physical regard. Although This Author has never taken the time to record eye color, all eight possess similar bone structure and the same thick, chestnut hair. One must pity the viscountess as she seeks advantageous marriages for her brood that she did not produce a single child of more fashionable coloring. Still, there are advantages to a family of such consistent looks— there can be no doubt that all eight are of legitimate parentage.

Ah, Gentle Reader, your devoted Author wishes that that were the case amid all large families…

Lady Whistledown's Society Papers,26 April 1813

"Ooooooooohhhhhhhhhh!" Violet Bridgerton crumpled the single-page newspaper into a ball and hurled it across the elegant drawing room. Her daughters Diana and Daphne wisely made no comment and pretended to be engrossed in her embroidery.

"Did you read what she said?" Violet demanded. "Did you?"

Daphne and Diana eyed the ball of paper, which now rested under a mahogany end table. Daphne spoke "I didn't have the opportunity before you, er, finished with it."

"Read it, then," Violet wailed, her arm slicing dramatically through the air. "Read how that woman has maligned us."

Diana calmly set down her embroidery and reached under the end table. She smoothed the sheet of paper out on her lap and read the paragraph about her family. Blinking, she looked up. "This isn't so bad, Mother. In fact, it's a veritable benediction compared to what she wrote about the Featheringtons last week."

"How am I supposed to find you both a husband while that woman is slandering your name?"

The twins forced themselves to exhale. After nearly two seasons in London, the mere mention of the word husband was enough to set their temples pounding. They wanted to marry, truly they did, and they weren't even holding out for a true love match. But was it really too much to hope for a husband for whom one had at least some affection?

Thus far, eight men had asked for their hands, but when Diana had thought about living the rest of their days in the company of any of them, she just couldn't do it. There were a number of men she thought might make reasonably good husbands, but the problem was—none of them was interested. Oh, they all liked her. Everyone liked her. Everyone thought she were funny and kind and a quick wit, and no one thought them the least bit unattractive, but at the same time, no one was dazzled by her beauty, stunned into speechlessness by her presence, or moved to write poetry in her honor.

Men, she thought with disgust, were interested only in those women who terrified them. No one seemed inclined to court someone like her. They all adored her, or so they said, because she was so easy to talk to, and she always seemed to understand how a man felt. As one of the men Diana had thought might make a reasonably good husband had said, "Deuce take it, Di, you're just not like regular females. You're positively normal."

Which she might have managed to consider a compliment if he hadn't proceeded to wander off in search of the latest blonde beauty.

Diana looked down and noticed that her hand was clenched into a fist. Then she looked up and realized her mother was staring at her, clearly waiting for her to say something. Since she had already exhaled, Diana cleared her throat, and said, "I'm sure Lady Whistledown's little column is not going to hurt my chances for a husband, the same for Daphne."

"Diana, it's been two years for you and Daphne!"

"And Lady Whistledown has only been publishing for three months, so I hardly see how wecan lay the blame at her door."

"I'll lay the blame wherever I choose," Violet muttered.

Diana's fingernails bit her palms as she willed herself not to make a retort. She knew her mother had only her best interests at heart, she knew her mother loved her. And she loved her mother, too. In fact, until Diana had reached marriageable age, Violet had been positively the best of mothers. She still was, when she wasn't despairing over the fact that after Diana and Daphne she had three more daughters to marry off.

Violet pressed a delicate hand to her chest. "She cast aspersions on your parentage."

"No," Diana said slowly. It was always wise to proceed with caution when contradicting her mother. "Actually, what she said was that there could be no doubt that we are all legitimate. Which is more than one can say for most large families of the ton."

"She shouldn't have even brought it up," Violet sniffed.

"Mother, she's the author of a scandal sheet. It's her job to bring such things up."

"She isn't even a real person," Violet added angrily. She planted her hands on her slim hips, then changed her mind and shook her finger in the air. "Whistledown, ha! I've never heard of any Whistledowns. Whoever this depraved woman is, I doubt she's one of us. As if anyone of breeding would write such wicked lies."

"Of course she's one of us," Diana said, her brown eyes filling with amusement. "If she weren't a, member of the ton, there is no way she'd be privy to the sort of news she reports. Did you think she was some sort of impostor, peeking in windows and listening at doors?"

"I don't like your tone, Diana Bridgerton," Violet said, her eyes narrowing.

Diana bit back another smile. "I don't like your tone," was Violet's standard answer when one of her children was winning an argument. But it was too much fun to tease her mother. "I wouldn't be surprised," she said, cocking her head to the side, "if Lady Whistledown was one of your "friends."

"Bite your tongue, Diana. No friend of mine would ever stoop so low."

 "Very well," Diana allowed, "it's probably not one of your friends. But I'm certain it's someone we know. No interloper could ever obtain the information she reports."

Violet crossed her arms. "I should like to put her out of business once and for all." Diana soon realized that Daphne left the room

 "If you wish to put her out of business," Diana could not resist pointing out, "you shouldn't support her by buying her newspaper."

 "And what good would that do?" Violet demanded. "Everyone else is reading it. My puny little embargo would do nothing except make me look ignorant when everyone else is chuckling over her latest gossip."

That much was true, Diana silently agreed. Fashionable London was positively addicted to Lady Whistledown's Society Papers. The mysterious newspaper had arrived on the doorstep of every member of the ton three months earlier. For two weeks it was delivered unbidden every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. And then, on the third Monday, butlers across London waited in vain for the pack of paperboys who normally delivered Whistledown, only to discover that instead of free delivery, they were selling the gossip sheet for the outrageous price of five pennies a paper.

 Diana had to admire the fictitious Lady Whistledown's savvy. By the time she started forcing people to pay for their gossip, all the ton was addicted. Everyone forked over their pennies, and somewhere some meddlesome woman was getting very rich.

While Violet paced the room and huffed about this "hideous slight" against her family, Diana looked up to make certain her mother wasn't paying her any attention, then let her eyes drop to peruse the rest of the scandal sheet. Whistledown —as it was now called—was a curious mix of commentary, social news, scathing insult, and the occasional compliment. What set it apart from any previous society news sheets was that the author actually listed her subjects' names in full. There was no hiding behind abbreviations such as Lord S------and Lady G------. If Lady Whistledown wanted to write about someone, she used his full name. The ton declared themselves scandalized, but they were secretly fascinated.

This most recent edition was typical Whistledown. Aside from the short piece on the Bridgertons—which was really no more than a description of the family— Lady Whistledown had recounted the events at the previous night's ball. Diana hadn't attended, as it had been her younger sister's birthday, and the Bridgertons always made a big fuss about birthdays. And with eight children, there were a lot of birthdays to celebrate.

"You're reading that rubbish," Violet accused.

Diana looked up, refusing to feel the least bit guilty. "It's a rather good column today. Apparently Cecil Tumbley knocked over an entire tower of champagne glasses last night."

"Really?" Violet asked, trying not to look interested.

"Mmm-hmm," Diana replied. "She gives quite a good account of the Middlethorpe ball. Mentions who was talking to whom, what everyone was wearing—"

"And I suppose she felt the need to offer her opinions on that point," Violet cut in.

Diana smiled wickedly. "Oh, come now, Mother. You know that Mrs. Featherington has always looked dreadful in purple."

Violet tried not to smile. Diana could see the corners of her mouth twitching as she tried to maintain the composure she deemed appropriate for a viscountess and mother. But within two seconds, she was grinning and sitting next to her daughter on the sofa. "Let me see that," she said, snatching up the paper. "What else happened? Did we miss anything important?"

 Diana said, "Really, Mother, with Lady Whistledown as a reporter, one needn't actually attend any events." She waved toward the paper. "This is almost as good as actually being there. Better, probably. I'm certain we had better food last night than they did at the ball. And give that back." She yanked the paper back, leaving a torn corner in Violet's hands.  

"Diana!"

Diana affected mock righteousness. "I was reading it."

"Well!"

"Listen to this." Violet leaned in. Diana read: "The rake formerly known as Earl Targaryen has finally seen fit to grace London with his presence. Although he has not yet deigned to make an appearance at a respectable evening function, the new Duke of Hastings has been spotted several times at White's and once at Tattersall's. " She paused to take a breath. "His grace has resided abroad for six years. Can it be any coincidence that he has returned only now that the old duke is dead?"

Diana looked up. "My goodness, she is blunt, isn't she? Isn't Targaryen one of Anthony's friends?"

"He's Hastings now," Violet said automatically, "and yes, I do believe he and Anthony were friendly at Oxford. And Eton as well, I think." Her brow scrunched and her blue eyes narrowed with thought. "He was something of a hellion, if my memory serves. Always at odds with his father. But reputed to be quite brilliant. I'm fairly sure that Anthony said he took a first in mathematics. Which," she added with a maternal roll of her eyes, "is more than I can say for any of my children."

"Now, now, Mother," Diana teased. "I'm sure I would take a first if Oxford would only see fit to admit women."

 Violet snorted. "I corrected your arithmetic papers when your governess was ill, Diana."

 "Well, maybe in history, then," Diana said with a grin. She looked back down at the paper in her hands, her eyes straying to the new duke's name. "He sounds quite interesting," she murmured.

 Violet looked at her sharply. "He's quite unsuitable for a young lady of your years is what he is."

"Funny how my 'years,' as you put it, volley back and forth between being so young that I cannot even meet Anthony's friends and being so old that you despair of my ever contracting a good marriage." "Diana Bridgerton, I don't—"

"—like my tone, I know." Diana grinned. "But you love me."

Violet smiled warmly and wrapped an arm around Diana's shoulder. "Heaven help me, I do."

Diana gave her mother a quick peck on the cheek. "It's the curse of motherhood. You're required to love us even when we vex you."

Violet just sighed. "I hope that someday you have children—"

 "—just like me, I know." Diana smiled nostalgically and rested her head on her mother's shoulder. Her mother could be overly inquisitive, and her father had been more interested in hounds and hunting than he'd been in society affairs, but theirs had been a warm marriage, filled with love, laughter, and children. "I could do a great deal worse than follow your example, Mother," she murmured.

"Why, Diana," Violet said, her eyes growing watery, "what a lovely thing to say."

 Diana twirled a lock of her chestnut hair around her finger, and grinned, letting the sentimental moment melt into a more teasing one. "I'm happy to follow in your footsteps when it comes to marriage and children, Mother, just so long as I don't have to have eight. "

 At that exact moment, Aemond Targaryen, the new Duke of Hastings and the erstwhile topic of the Bridgerton ladies' conversation, was sitting at White's. His companion was none other than Anthony Bridgerton, Diana's eldest brother. The two cut a striking pair, both tall and athletic, with thick dark hair. But where Anthony's eyes were the same deep chocolate brown as his sister's, Aemond's were icy blue, with an oddly penetrating gaze.

 It was those eyes as much as anything that had earned him his reputation as a man to be reckoned with. When he stared at a person, clear and unwavering, men grew uncomfortable. Women positively shivered.

 But not Anthony. The two men had known each other for years, and Anthony just laughed when Aemond raised a brow and turned his icy gaze upon him. "You forget, I've seen you with your head being lowered into a chamber pot," Anthony had once told him. "It's been difficult to take you seriously ever since."

To which Aemond had replied, "Yes, but if I recall, you were the one holding me over that fragrant receptacle."

"One of my proudest moments, to be sure. But you had your revenge the next night in the form of a dozen eels in my bed."

Aemond allowed himself a smile as he remembered both the incident and their subsequent conversation about it. Anthony was a good friend, just the sort a man would want by his side in a pinch. He'd been the first person Aemond had looked up upon returning to England.

"It's damned fine to have you back, Targaryen," Anthony said, once they'd settled in at their table at White's. "Oh, but I suppose you'll insist I call you Hastings now."

"No," Aemond said rather emphatically. "Hastings will always be my father. He never answered to anything else." He paused. "I'll assume his title if I must, but I won't be called by his name."

 "If you must?" Anthony's eyes widened slightly. "Most men would not sound quite so resigned about the prospect of a dukedom."

Aemond raked a hand through his dark hair. He knew he was supposed to cherish his birthright and display unwavering pride in the Basset family's illustrious history, but the truth was it all made him sick inside. He'd spent his entire life not living up to his father's expectations; it seemed ridiculous now to try to live up to his name. "It's a damned burden is what it is," he finally grumbled

"You'd best get used to it," Anthony said pragmatically, "because that's what everyone will call you."

Aemond knew it was true, but he doubted if the title would ever sit well upon his shoulders.

"Well, whatever the case," Anthony added, respecting his friend's privacy by not delving further into what was obviously an uncomfortable topic, "I'm glad to have you back. I might finally get some peace next time I escort my sister to a ball."

 Aemond leaned back, crossing his long, muscular legs at the ankles. "An intriguing remark."

Anthony raised a brow. "One that you're certain I'll explain?"

"But of course."

 "I ought to let you learn for yourself, but then, I've never been a cruel man."

Aemond chuckled. "This coming from the man who dunked my head in a chamber pot?"

Anthony waved his hand dismissively. "I was young."

"And now you're a model of mature decorum and respectability?"

 Anthony grinned. "Absolutely."

"So tell me," Aemond drawled, "how, exactly, am I meant to make your existence that much more peaceful?"

 "I assume you plan to take your place in society?"

"You assume incorrectly."

 "But you are planning to attend Lady Danbury's ball this week," Anthony said.

"Only because I am inexplicably fond of the old woman. She says what she means, and—" Aemond's eyes grew somewhat shuttered.

"And?" Anthony prompted. Aemond gave his head a little shake. "It's nothing. Just that she was rather kind to me as a child. I spent a few school holidays at her house with Riverdale. Her nephew, you know."

Anthony nodded once. "I see. So you have no intention of entering society. I'm impressed by your resolve. But allow me to warn you—even if you do not choose to attend the ton's events, they will find you,”

Aemond, who had chosen that moment to take a sip of his brandy, choked on the spirit at the look on Anthony's face when he said, "they." After a few moments of coughing and sputtering, he finally managed to say, "Who, pray tell', are 'they'?"

Anthony shuddered. "Mothers."

"Not having had one myself, I can't say I grasp your point."

"Society mothers, you dolt. Those fire-breathing dragons with daughters of—God help us— marriageable age. You can run, but you'll never manage to hide from them. And I should warn you, my own is the worst of the lot."

"Good God. And here I thought Africa was dangerous."

Anthony shot his friend a faintly pitying look. "They will hunt you down. And when they find you, you will find yourself trapped in conversation with a pale young lady all dressed in white who cannot converse on topics other than the weather, who received vouchers to Almack's, and hair ribbons."

A look of amusement crossed Aemond's features. "I take it, then, that during my time abroad you have become something of an eligible gentleman?"

"Not out of any aspirations to the role on my part, I assure you. If it were up to me, I'd avoid society functions like the plague. But my sister made her bow last year, and I'm forced to escort her from time to time."

"Diana, you mean?"

Anthony looked up in surprise. "Did the two of you ever meet?"

"No," Aemond admitted, "but I remember her letters to you at school, and I recalled that she was fourth in the family, so she had to start with D, and—"

"Ah, yes," Anthony said with a slight roll of his eyes, "the Bridgerton method of naming children. Guaranteed to make certain no one forgets who you are."

Aemond laughed. "It worked, didn't it?"

"Say, Aemond," Anthony suddenly said, leaning forward, "I've promised my mother I'll have dinner at Bridgerton House later this week with the family. Why don't you join me?"

Aemond raised a dark brow. "Didn't you just warn me about society mothers and debutante daughters?"

Anthony laughed. "I'll put my mother on her best behavior, and don't worry about Di. She's the exception that proves the rule. You'll like her immensely."

Aemond narrowed his eyes. Was Anthony playing matchmaker? He couldn't tell.

As if Anthony were reading his thoughts, he laughed. "Good God, you don't think I'm trying to pair you off with Diana, do you?"

 Aemond said nothing.

"You would never suit. You're a bit too brooding for her tastes."

 Aemond thought that an odd comment, but instead chose to ask,

 "Has she had any offers, then?"

 "A few." Anthony kicked back the rest of his brandy, then let out a satisfied exhale. "I've allowed her to refuse them all."

"That's rather indulgent of you."

Anthony shrugged. "Love is probably too much to hope for in a marriage these days, but I don't see why she shouldn't be happy with her husband. We've had offers from one man old enough to be her father, another old enough to be her father's younger brother, one who was rather too high in the instep for our often boisterous clan, and then this week, dear God, that was the worst!"

"What happened?" Aemond asked curiously.

Anthony gave his temples a weary rub. "This last one was perfectly amiable, but a rather bit dim in the head. You'd think, after our rakish days, I'd be completely without feelings—"

 "Really?" Aemond asked with a devilish grin. "You'd think that?"

Anthony scowled at him. "I didn't particularly enjoy breaking this poor fool's heart."

"Er, wasn't Diana the one to do that?"

"Yes, but I had to tell him."

"Not many brothers would allow their sister such latitude with their marriage proposals," Aemond said quietly.

Anthony just shrugged again, as if he couldn't imagine treating his sister in any other way. "She's been a good sister to me. It's the least I can do."

"Even if it means escorting her to Almack's?" Aemond said wickedly.

Anthony groaned. "Even then."

"I'd console you by pointing out that this will all be over soon, but you've what, three other sisters waiting in the wings?"

Anthony positively slumped in his seat. "Eloise is due out in two years, and Francesca the year after that, but then I've a bit of a reprieve before Hyacinth comes of age."

Aemond chuckled. "I don't envy you your responsibilities in that quarter." But even as he said the words, he felt a strange longing, and he wondered what it would be like to be not quite so alone in this world. He had no plans to start a family of his own, but maybe if he'd had one to begin with, his life would have turned out a bit differently.

"So you'll come for supper, then?" Anthony stood. "Informal, of course. We never take meals formally when it's just family."

Aemond had a dozen things to do in the next few days, but before he could remind himself that he needed to get his affairs in order, he heard himself saying, "I'd be delighted

"Excellent. And I'll see you at the Danbury bash first?"

Aemond shuddered. "Not if I can help it. My aim is to be in and out in under thirty minutes."

"You really think," Anthony said, raising a doubtful brow, "that you're going to be able to go to the party, pay your respects to Lady Danbury, and leave?"

Aemond's nod was forceful and direct.

But Anthony's snort of laughter was not terribly reassuring

Taglist :- @watercolorskyy @velaryon-seahores (I just wanted you to see, my neck hurts due to bending down and looking at the book every second)

[bbnibini]

eight: smoke and mirrors**

“But in a solitary life, there are rare moments when another soul dips near yours, as stars once a year brush the earth. Such a constellation was he to me.”― Madeline Miller, Circe

Reading was difficult to do in the darkness, even for an Angel of Death. Samael sat beside scrolls and tomes in his breaks, singing poetry to the Dianthus as they bloomed; to  Leviathan as well—the little god was cradled in his arms, fast asleep as he sang the last syllables of the stanzas he had fashioned into lyrics, hoping that doing so would make him understand what it meant. But its meaning remained elusive. The story Christopher lent to him carried the same sentiments—human ceremonies to him were only words on a page, and the concept of destiny is something that didn't seem to apply to him. Rather, he should have been the one to bestow it. He remembered asking El that question before when he was little:

"Why do we do all of this?"

"Why am I death if I will never die?"

And El could only smile vaguely at him and say, "It doesn't matter. It's just who we are."

"Simeon" was a convenient vessel. Often, he wandered in the mortal realm to experience humanity, as Christopher would tell him excitedly over bed—the sickly human would mutter his half-asleep wishes every time he returned a scroll, and he would hold his vessel's hand while calling another name.

"Lily." Even the name she chose to use as her guise couldn't help elicit a reaction from him. Samael held his breath as he felt petals upon petals of flowers seemingly bloom in his throat and fill his lungs as he swallowed. Each heartbeat scattered petals around him, and he could see her standing in front of him when he breathed again, but her lovely green eyes weren't focused on his. 

"Were you able to go to the wedding? It was beautiful, wasn't it?"

Samael didn't speak. He placed the scrolls near his bed and attempted to leave, but in Christopher's dreams, he was holding his hand which he thought was hers, so he didn't let go.

"You would be a beautiful bride, Lily…so…"

Samael felt his stomach knot at the human's words—he read about weddings in his many scrolls and stories; it was a day when humans were the happiest. Soulmates bound by destiny would be one in flesh. El would bind their lives to each other, and no man may separate them. 

He stood beside Christopher—still as water, breathless…

"I would like to see you as a bride, Lily."

…and felt like he had drowned in cold water. Suddenly, everything made sense.

He wished it didn't.

What does being in love mean?

Are these the stolen glances that shy away at the slightest recognition? Or are they the thoughtful sips she had on a water goblet, in fear of another drunken whisper? The brushing of his hand on her golden hair as he placed a flower crown on her head—her avoidant glances and emerald eyes on the floor as her lips curved into a small smile, whispering his name?

Was it the way his heart beats when she enters the room or was it the hollowness in his chest as she leaves it? The tender way he wanted to brush away the eyelash caught in the corner of her eye, in fear that his touch would cause her harm? Was it the songs they shared in the darkness, her hand squeezing his as he held his realm’s first flower so gently and tenderly in fear it may break?

When his poems described love to be a seed, he wished he could grow it in his domain so the hopes of it ever blooming would never come. For he would never sing to it the songs revered by the mortals, nor would it know the secret words he kept in his heart. 

"I would like to see you as a bride, Lily "

He saw Lilith standing beside Christopher, holding his hand, and remembered her liquored whispers in his ears over the Dianthus field.

“Wanna know a secret?”

Samael shook his head, but he saw it. Her emerald eyes gazed tenderly at Christopher’s sleeping figure, petal after petal, making him choke in his words and say nothing. He saw her lean her face near the sleeping man’s ear, half a smile. Her lips pressed on his forehead as he stirred in his sleep, and she sat beside him, holding his hand. Samael closed his eyes. And when he opened them again, it was only he and Christopher—he finally let him go. Samael sighed in relief, looking down—petals nowhere in sight. 

"I've made a friend. A human friend."

"Lilith, do you ever want to get married?"

Some nectar spilt on the hem of his cloak. When he looked to her side, he could see some of it dripping down the corner of her lips. He hurriedly apologised, and reached out his hand–

"I-I'm fine…" Lilith whispered, backing away; a blushing pink under the star lantern, eyes downcast. His chest tightened yet he still held his breath.

"How did you learn about marriage, Lord Samael?"

Lord.

Even after his earnest request. Had she forgotten? He wanted to ask but he did not correct her.

"Belfagel writes to me sometimes," not quite the truth, but not a lie either. "It's a most intriguing ceremony in the mortal realm. I just thought it was interesting."

"Haha…I see….

..

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

Uhmm…I guess I never really thought about it!"

Another lie, he knew. But he didn't pry any further. 

"It is an unfathomable concept to us, isn't it? But to humans, it's one of the most important days of their lives."

He saw Lilith bite her lip at his words

.

.

.

.

Falling in love with a human is taboo. Even if her feelings are returned, Christopher's death is looming and they wouldn't have much time left. But…

…if it's what makes Lilith happy…

"Lord Samael?"

Lord again. He inhaled sharply. 

"Yes, Lilith?"

She was hesitant to speak. But words eventually came out of her mouth, "What about you? Have you ever thought of marriage?"

The darkness around him seemed to stir. Was he able to keep himself together? What did he look like in her eyes? Or did it not matter? 

Samael sighed as he took a sip of nectar, directing his eyes toward the sea. 

"... wouldn't it be unthinkable of me?" He didn't expect himself to sound so bitter. Lilith didn't say anything, so he continued. "Rather…I couldn't. And would not."

"...You couldn’t?" Lilith raised her voice, biting her lip as she asked him again. “Why not?”

"It's just how it is," He said, realising he said the same words El had, so he tried to elaborate. "Like you, I never really thought about it."

"Ah…" She said, their silence stretching over the horizon. 

He used to feel peaceful in their drawn-out silence—they used to understand each other enough that no words needed to be spoken. So when did it start? When did the walls start to form? Why would she venture into the darkness when Leviathan wasn’t around? He waited. Waited for her to say something. Waited for her for days on end. But each silent day, each restless night where she didn’t say a word made him fear for her—of a day when she would eventually be caught. Each tender story and each stanza in Christopher’s scrolls, each anecdote and each trace of her he covered pierced his chest and made him see a grim future. She would stand in front of the Council of Angels as Lucifer pounded the gavel and issued her sentence. And he would be there, sitting amongst the seraphim, looking helplessly. 

It was getting harder to breathe as the waves continued being the only sound he could hear in the darkness. When he finally managed to utter a word, he tried to break the silence. 

"You would make a beautiful bride, Lilith." He heard her gasp, her goblet clinking as she drank water from the cold pitcher. 

“W-why…all of a sudden…?”

…He couldn't do it. 

He couldn't wait anymore.

.

.

.

.

.

It had to stop.

"Lilith…I know about him. About Christopher."

"..."

"...tell me what I can do for you. I'll always be on your side."

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

L-Lilith?" He felt his heart shatter into pieces at the sight of her tears. He gingerly held out his hand and tried to wipe them away, but she continued to sob. 

"I'm sorry! I–"

"Samael." Her voice sounded frustrated. Clear emerald eyes looked at him with a burning gaze. "No…this is all my fault."

Samael . She was back. His Lilith. He held her in his arms as he stroked her hair.

“Hush,” he said, sighing in relief when she finally calmed down a little. From the distance, he could see Christopher looking at him; soft brown eyes and a peaceful smile.

He approached the First Angel and whispered in his ear. “Don’t be cruel, Samael. Stay in your lane.”

“I know,” He whispered back, ignoring his heartbeats and the flowers in his chest.

“I know,” he said again, and Christopher was gone. 

“Samael?” Lilith looked up at him, her puffy eyes upturned and confused. 

He smiled.

This was enough for him.

"Smoke and mirrors? Just who are you trying to deceive, Balladeer?"

Scaramouche laughed as he placed down his quill, his hand leaning on his chin as he turned to his companion.

"There are many players in this story: there's the doomed lovers, the onlooker who didn't know anything. And then there's also the fool, thinking they are way above the narrative when they were the centre of it all along."

"Just say it's for the third one then." His companion sighed, resigning himself to Scaramouche's whimsy. Scaramouche turned back to his chair once he had answered his question, and placed the tip of his inked quill on a new, blank page.

🌼masterlist 🌼next chapter

[magbld]

#4 entry

I miss you! I hope you've been sleeping well. I haven't been sleeping well; you've been on my mind a lot. I woke up today around 11 or so and I just wanted to get out of my house. I felt my feelings boiling up again and whenever I'm outside walking it subsides a little. So I walked. And walked. I miss chatting about our days while it was LITERALLY happening LOL. You were my outlet a lot of the times. My best friend. I had a marker with me and I wrote little notes to places we would walk too. One on the log. One on the rock at the church steps. One on the playground where we sat underneath the slid (it smudged off sorry.) It was like making a memorial for a passed one. While I was walking I often just talk out loud to myself. I talked about how hard this is for me and how I wish you well on your modest journey. And that I really hoped things are going well for you now and you find comfort in the things you weren't comfortable while with me. I played on the park a bit (just on the spinning top I'd maybe do 3 or 4 rotations) then I walked back home. Then I got up and decided I wanted to go to the cafe at north centre we'd went to. The one where we bought 6 pastries for 30$ and played it off as if we're buying it for a friend group so there wasn't suspicion on our relationship (because we were a itty bitty secret my love LOL). Before hand, I went to indigo, I walked around wondering what I would get. I originally thought of that heaven booked, but I changed my mind. I went to the self-help section and got a book on love and one on purpose. Then I got a poetry book about heartbreak. You loved poetry right? I'm becoming more fond of it. I was fond of you. And then I walked and walked towards the cafe. I got this pastry cake sort of? it was brittle and a little dry. It tasted of coffee and hazelnut with some sort of cream in the middle. It was alright -- honestly! the pastries there a Lowkey kind of mid, I'm sorry boogar. But I ate it as I sat and opened a few pages into the poetry book and love book. That cafe is so busy. like actually so busy why is everyone there? the seat I sat in was uneven same was the table. and there was a stain/spill of coffee on the desk. the men in front of me kept glancing looks like aight bro lets calm down. I know i'm the only asian dude here. It makes me laugh because it reminds me of how whenever we go to a restaurant we were the minorities and we'd often get sat in a corner or something LOL. But so then I read, the books are okay! the love one (at the moment) talks about self-love first and preparing for love and solitude. while the poetry book is meh meh just poetry! lol. And so I read for a bit then I realized it was time to go home. I missed my bus. So I went to Walmart to get some deodorant because I've ran out! I be stinking the room and everything gah damn what the fuck. supar hot in here--open the windows. I got the deodorant you loved on me. And then I got your message. Damn! they broke up. maybe they really were tryna be us so bad. It's sad honestly. Never plan for a double date for hotpot again or else both parties will be broken up before the date they set. HAHA. But I sympathize with him a lot! I can't imagine how he feels, their relationship was a lot longer than ours and honestly I can't imagine how I would feel. All this about religion made it ironic on how while you struggled about it, I was interested in learning more about yours. Honestly I've been interested in learning different religions, read their scriptures and books and learn more because it's something that peaks my interests a bit. Had we had been longer together I most likely would have converted not just for you but just for me. It was already sort of in the back of my mind. Imagine if I had told you? what would you have said? would you have been happy? or sort of sad? Oh well. I probably honestly would've converted if we had been together for longer. I'll probably look more into it in the future because I can. Who knows what'll become of me by then!

But then I went back on the bus to head home but I stopped at the school. I wanted to walk some more! I've been wanting to walk more recently its sort of my last connection to you. And I spun on that sling top thingy. Then I walked, then walked some more. I went back to our spot and sat down, the sun was setting. I saw the log had an imprint of someone sitting there and was like "maybe she was here earlier, maybe she read the message" then I remembered I also sat down there earlier. I went to go read my books I bought. with the noises and scenery of how gentle the sun was setting and it's such pretty colours. we broke up on a pretty day honestly. I remember texting you how it sucked that we broke up and you also said it sucked. I'm glad you said that. I was getting cold so I thought it was time to finally head home. Took a shower and now I'm laying here writing this. I hope everything is going well for you as always. I don't know if I'd say yes to you if you asked for another try. I honestly might If you did. We had (to me) something really nice and intimate. And we didn't end on bad terms. So silly of me. I just played with lychee. so silly as well. I'll talk tomorrow or later tonight! see you.

[hollyhomburg]

Before I Leave You (Part 1) (sneak peak)

(Omegaverse au, Mafia au, Bts x Reader)

Summary: Yoongi Disappears- leaving behind a shattered pack. 8 months later, Jimin finds Yoongi in an H-mart of all places.

Pairing: Beta! Yoongi, Omega! Reader, Omega! Jungkook, Omega! Seokjin, Alpha! Namjoon, Alpha! Hoseok, Alpha! Taehyung, Alpha! Jimin,

Tags: Angst, hurt/comfort, low-self esteem, abandonment, anxiety, brief implied suicidal thoughts (Tae), you can see it below in the teaser,

W/c: 7.0k

A/n: Here we go! I decided to move up posting this because of Bangbangcon, i didn’t want to post while it was going on which is when this was originally scheduled for. we’ve got some more angst but the good news is you finally get a peak at the m/c at the end! 

Prologue 

——————

Part 1: Sweet Regret

Taehyung puts his longing for Yoongi into words.

It’s been years since he wrote so much, since college when he finally got tired of the pessimist attitudes of his professors (according to them his works were always a little too grammatically incorrect and fanciful, a cross-section between poetry and prose). His creativity was too intimate and vulnerable to survive an appraising eye for long. He decided to protect that soft side of him that had something to say and save it only for Jimin.

The pieces of his sensitive heart hidden in longhand love letters that they’d send back and forth before Jimin had finally signed with an protection agency and moved to the city from the rural town they both grew up in.

Now he writes those longhand love letters for Yoongi- shoves them in-betweens pages of books so that he doesn’t have to think about them. compartmentalizing his hurt into sentences and paragraphs. No one loves me quite like you did he writes, red ink that might as well be his blood for how much it hurts to pen the words that Yoongi might never read. 

And yet, that pain is still a papercut compared to how much Taehyung hurts without Yoongi by his side.

These letters aren’t like the ones he wrote for Jimin all those years ago. No- those are saved and shared between the two of them when Jimin snaps at him and they fight (this happens more after the stress of Yoongi leaving and a very bad rut season- a perfect storm for their worst fight in years). They only open the shoebox that holds the love letters when he and Jimin need a reminder that the foundation of their love isn’t something that can be damaged by petty words.

but Jimin had never abandoned him the way that yoongi has; not when he wanted to go to an expensive school in the city away from their mountainside town. Leaving Jimin to work at the same martial arts studio as always. Not when they were so poor that they could only see each other once a month if they were lucky. only when jimin saved up enough money to take the train into the city. 

In one of the first love letters Taehyung ever wrote, it goes; ‘I wish I could meet you at the train station, my love, I crave the easy look you give me the first time you see me in months, where I am the earth and you the moon. And it feels dizzying like I am the person who you love most, your tornado and your torrent. under your eyes, I feel like a force of nature. kissing you tastes like colors I don't have words for.’  

Losing Yoongi feels sort of like that- disorienting, and Tae is unable to find a pattern in life without him. Sometimes he goes weeks without writing letters, other times- he writes Yoongi three times in the same day. Stained with as many tears as they are stained with ink.

One night Namjoon finds Tae asleep over some of them, he wakes with a start when the pack alpha skims a hand down tae’s back. waking him up softly to  drag him back to the nest. And Tae knows just from the soft look in Namjoon's eyes that he's read some of the words. Maybe the ink has bled onto Taehyung's cheek where it was pressed to the letter. 

Words like the tattoos on his soul, each of their names written over and over again. There is no more room left on Taehyung's soul, no more room for another name and no room left for another person to make a home out of his  heart- the same way Taehyung had found a home in Yoongi’s. 

(that's a little bit of a lie- Taehyung just hasn’t met you yet). 

Tae's worried about what namjoon might have read, he doesn't know if he could handle Namjoon trying to talk to him about his feelings right now. He hopes that Namjoon didn’t read "You were the knife to my cadaver. I understand that you had to leave, but what I don't understand is why you had to take so much of me with you. if you weren't planning on treasuring me, the least you could have done is leave me whole. Tossed me back into the ocean like a piece of sea glass that needs more polishing."

Or even worse, the lines that aren’t as pretty but just as true, “if I ever see you again, I think I’ll start crying on sight because I don’t think we’ll ever really meet again. Maybe we were just soulmates that met a lifetime too soon. Maybe in the next life, I will hold onto you better. Maybe at the pearly gates, you will be my only sweet regret. If you’re already dead, I’ll wish I was too. I wish I could hate you as much as I love you.”

Because no matter the words- Tae knows he's better off having known Yoongi. however fleeting their love story was. 

But that doesn't mean he's not fucking angry.

---------------------------

COMING: Monday April 12th @ 5pm

[preserving-ferretbrain]

These moths really weren't necessary

by Sören Heim

Monday, 04 April 2016

Trying to get a hold of the "New Weird" Movement, Sören Heim started with a modern classic.~

Some early passages of China Miéville's Perdido Street Station I'd like to have read out loud to me by Dylan Thomas' powerful bardic voice. There are poetic, even melodic moments in this book, with just the right amount of dissonance to match the fantastic-dystopic setting of New Crobuzon, loosely modeled on the cityscape of modern London. I was directed towards Miéville by fans in the aftermath of my criticism of fantasy authors mistaking being "dark" and morally ambiguous for literary merit in itself, when I asked about writers who don't either try to imitate Tolkien or outrightly criticize the genre's tropes, but tell a story for its own sake. And one can tell from the better parts of Perdido that Miéville is trying to do something special here, as it seems he is always trying, which is why Matt Hilliard wrote this about him:

"I’ll say this for the book: it might have failed with me, but it was an ambitious failure. Better to fail through overreaching than from insufficient aspirations. I don’t recommend this one but I’ll be eagerly awaiting Miéville’s next novel."

So as a type of "industrial novel", and maybe as a verbose painting of a metropolis,

Perdido Street Station

certainly has its appeal and some of its better moments remind me (mind, I don't say something like that easily) of established classics in the genre like Dos Passo's

Manhattan Transfer

, Döblin's

Berlin Alexanderplatz

, Belyj's

Peterburg

or the much too rarely read

Riverroad

by Mwangi.

Shakespeare with bugs, bad pun intended

So much for the light. There is a lot of mediocrity and some darkness, too.

Perdido Street Station

, among other things, tells the story of Isaac and Lin, him a scientist, her an artist, who both try to achieve something extraordinary in their field: Isaac tries to restore the gift of flight to Yagharek, member of a birdlike species called Garuda, who has been sentenced by his people to losing his wings, because of the incredible crime called "choice-theft in the second degree with utter disrespect". Meanwhile, Lin wants to break out of the collectivist ideal of art of her social background and therefore agrees to work on the likeness of a shady underworld mogul in New Crobuzon. As far as that goes

Perdido

is in the beginning chiefly a

“Künstlerroman”

, since science in Miévilles cosmos looks a lot like our physics, but is really much closer to what in other fantastic novels would be called magic (at least the field of thaumaturgy, which is Isaac's main interest). At the same time, the book tells the story of the unheard-of love between a human (again: Isaac) and a khepri (Lin), who is basically a human-bug chimera. Sounds interesting enough, and could easily carry the whole piece. Shakespeare made a somewhat successful play on a subject-matter maybe less risque, and one is told that a lot of writers followed in his footsteps...

But since Miéville isn't too fond of the whole "show, don't tell" business, he merely states all the possible conflicts that could arise from that love affair in two or three somewhat extended infodumps and then mostly forgets about it. Hardly ever is the reader made to

feel

the social stigma imprinted on the relationship of Lin and Isaac. Same goes for what it means being a "rogue scientist" or an artist desperately struggling with a completely new approach to ones passion. Instead, Miéville actually writes sentences like "She was an Artist, yadayadayada... He was a scientist, yadayadayada", and he does this more often than is good for any halfway decent character portrayal. He is better with his supporting cast though, which makes me wonder whether he maybe just didn't like his protagonist that much, and would also explain why he quickly has Lin taken into captivity by her mobster-artfunder and has her become the center of a substandard damsel-in-distress storyline instead of actually doing something more with her.

Writing - and failing at - three books at once

It is a common criticism of

Perdido Street Station

that China Miéville is too interested in New Crobuzon itself and doesn't care about getting the plot going for most of the first half of the book. To me, that only rings partly true. Actually, maybe there is rather too much going on plot-wise and Miéville's main problem is that he hadn't really decided what kind of book he was going to write. The künstlerroman/love story portion dominating roughly 1/3 of

Perdido

could, as mentioned above, stand quite well for itself. It's no

Portrait of the Artist

, but if it were a little bit more subtly developed it could be quite enjoyable. What does it mean for an artist, coming from a background which frowns upon individual expression, to work for a mobster who would and does kill to make it possible for her to do her job? How is Garuda society really structured besides from being described as somehow "communist"? How does this communism work without tipping over into Soviet-like totalitarianism? Does it only work because the Garuda live a nomadic lifestyle? Or because they are simply psychological so different from human beings? Or does Miéville, who styles himself a communist, know something about how to avoid previous failings of communism, he wishes to share? Also: what makes "choice-theft in the second degree with utter disrespect" a crime too complicated even to

try

to explain it in plain English to Isaac?

Learning more about all this and much more might make for an interesting read, maybe even with some story-wise pointless subplots, which could really help to

experience

the whole New Crobuzon cosmos Miéville goes on and on about without ever really showing what it

means

to live in it.

Demented Mothmonsters. I mean: Moth-Dementors. I mean Nazgul. Whatever

Instead, well... This is where

Perdido Street Station

started to lose me and got me more and more angry. Instead after some three- or four hundred pages Miéville begins to conjure up mind- and soul- sucking mothmonsters, living on the dreams of the inhabitants of New Crobuzon. If that reminds you of Rowling's Dementors or the even more prototypical Nazgul, that is because they are basically like that but much less cool. (Actually, of course, Issac conjures up the moths while investigating flying animals in order to help Yagharek regain his abilities, but since this is the point where the whole book finally falls apart shifting the blame from author to protagonist feels to me rather fishy). Suddenly, it seems as if Miéville had changed his mind completely and decided to write a mystery-thriller/detective story instead of his panoptic of a huge, vibrant city. Writing good mystery is much tougher than one might think, and Miéville is clearly not up to the task. His mystery doesn't take off, there isn't much detecting to do and while

Perdido

thus rapidly slides into

Ghostbusters

trash territory, this doesn't really work either, because a) the book never built up to be that kind of story; and b) the moth-dementors can't be busted by mere human beings anyway. Miéville solves this problem by inventing a poetry-loving spider-ex-machina which weaves and reweaves the fabric of the universe according to purely aesthetic criteria. That is mildly odd and funny. But it is much too late for

Perdido

to succeed as comedy.

When bad things happen to good books

Now, maybe I'm being a little harsh here with Miéville since the novel, as stated, clearly has its moments. But seeing how well it starts out and how completely Miéville manages to ruin

Perdido

not only for me but I think also for most readers who would have loved to experience a well-composed mystery-novel within Miéville's intriguing setting, is really disappointing. More so, since I feel I share at least some visions with the author about what a real masterpiece of speculative fiction could look like. Miéville

is

trying to achieve something special and he could well be the author who one day will. So when reading

Perdido

I was more than once reminded of a great moment in

Frasier

, when Kate Costas comments on Frasier completely losing track of what he was going to say: "Isn't it sad when bad things happen to good sentences?"

Yes. And it's true for books, too.

Finally, whatever exactly Miéville was trying to do with

Perdido

, his late revelation that Yagharek in Garuda society has actually raped a woman (that is the aforementioned "choice theft in the second degree", a crime impossible to translate from Garuda to English), is clearly not the way to achieve it.

It might be well-intended

, showing us how somebody we deeply invest in and care for might not be worth the effort, and how being on quests with somebody and having lived through a lot doesn't mean necessarily one has to stand up for this person. Miéville even does make his point half-way convincingly, by having Isaac turn away from Yagharek.

It still feels cheap

, since Miéville pulls "rape" out of thin air in the end, just in order to make a point. It is more for effect really, and Miéville opts out of discussing the implications much too easily by having the novel end immediately afterwards. Also: what's so difficult to explain about this "choice-theft in the second degree with utter disrespect"? Victim Kar’uchai has no trouble saying something along the lines of "you would call it rape". Maybe this is also meant to show how bad of a person Yagharek really is, concealing his crime before. But to me, it just doesn't add up convincingly.Themes:

Fantasy Rape Watch

,

Books

,

Sci-fi / Fantasy

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James D

at 21:46 on 2016-04-04Agreed on basically all points. The "rape revelation" could have worked if it had appeared around halfway through the Kuenstlerroman version - in the actual book Isaac goes from denial to acceptance to "fuck it, I'm outta here" in the span of about a page.

In reality, how many people would immediately, unquestioningly believe a stranger's claim that their friend raped her, without evidence other than her say-so? Besides which, Isaac is financially obligated to Yagharek, who has invested lots of his own money (gained by fighting in dangerous gladiatorial bouts) in the cure. That money was spent, Isaac can't give him a refund, and besides that it's money that maintains Isaac's standard of living - would he just immediately give that up without question? And is permanent maiming even a just punishment for rape? These are legitimate questions that Isaac could easily have spent half of a much better novel considering, and probably would have, given that we see Isaac is the type of guy loathe to give up his status and comfortable life to go against the grain, i.e. his unwillingness to "go public" with his relationship with Lin for fear of jeopardizing his cushy academic position. There are SO MANY FACTORS that are set up which would cause Isaac to be highly skeptical of the victim's (totally legitimate) claims, and instead he just immediately believes her based on...well, I guess she seems trustworthy.

Instead rape, which Mieville apparently considers a serious crime, is just an offhand afterthought in the coda to the main plot.

Oh and I forgot if you mentioned the fridging of Lin but that was super lame too. I think most people agree on these criticisms, it just depends on how much they drag down your overall reading experience. In mine (and apparently yours), the answer is quite a bit.

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Ichneumon

at 04:50 on 2016-04-05I've been meaning to read this for a while, but from previous discussions and reading about the book, I thought part of the point of obscuring the wording was a way of framing just how differently the Garuda view their society from humans in that world. Everything is framed as a matter of choice, and to deprive another person of that freedom in an especially disrespectful manner is an abomination to them; thus, sexual violence is described in terms of denying a person their freedom to choose and refusing to honour a choice made by another. While not *entirely* alien, it's certainly unusual. It also comes up in at least one of his other Bas-Lag novels.

I wonder if one notices more hints in that direction on a second read. Having read some of Miéville's other work, particularly short fiction, it wouldn't surprise me if he dropped subtle hints that reward a second or third look. None of this changes that it might be a poorly structured book or unpleasantly rushed at the end, but it's worth considering.

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Arthur B

at 07:22 on 2016-04-05@JamesD:

There are SO MANY FACTORS that are set up which would cause Isaac to be highly skeptical of the victim's (totally legitimate) claims, and instead he just immediately believes her based on...well, I guess she seems trustworthy.

It's been a good long time since I read the book, but I seem to remember that Isaac's life is comprehensively wrecked by the end. Which I guess makes it easy to walk away from Yagharek, because none of the factors which could potentially have prompted him to disbelieve and stick around apply any more.

@Ichneumon:

I wonder if one notices more hints in that direction on a second read. Having read some of Miéville's other work, particularly short fiction, it wouldn't surprise me if he dropped subtle hints that reward a second or third look. None of this changes that it might be a poorly structured book or unpleasantly rushed at the end, but it's worth considering.

From what I remember of the book, a reread would be more an issue of noticing all the bits which Mieville spills a bunch of ink on but which don't appreciably increase our understanding of the world or characters or advance the plot.

For instance, I seem to remember a bit where the mayor summons a demon to try to deal with the moth problem and they have this long conversation which amounts to absolutely nothing which wouldn't have been accomplished by a one-sentence aside that the mayor had sought infernal help which was refused. Likewise, the one other bit I remember strongly (there's great swathes of eminently forgettable stuff in there) is the

Dungeons & Dragons

parody when he mentions the parties of wandering adventurers who try to take down the moth, which also outstays its welcome.

To that extent I disagree that Mieville isn't into "show, don't tell" - the real problem is that he just tells us stuff that could have been more interesting if he showed it and shows us stuff which he should perhaps just told us about and moved on.

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James D

at 10:13 on 2016-04-05

It's been a good long time since I read the book, but I seem to remember that Isaac's life is comprehensively wrecked by the end. Which I guess makes it easy to walk away from Yagharek, because none of the factors which could potentially have prompted him to disbelieve and stick around apply any more.

You're right, Isaac had lost his girlfriend and was on the run, which would've made it easier. It's not that it's completely unbelievable that Isaac would do what he did, it's that Mieville chose the least interesting, least dramatic way to handle what could've been a really interesting character dilemma - and a much, much more interesting conflict than "we gotta kill some monsters."

And yeah there are all sorts of throwaway parts of the book which are neat for worldbuilding I guess but completely without plot significance - there was also the part where the Handlers fight the slake-moths and get their asses beat with no results. I suppose he's trying to show how the establishment of Bas-Lag is trying their best to beat the moths and failing, but these are long, drawn-out sequences that don't involve main characters, have no real stakes, and don't move the plot forward.

I think a while back we were discussing this (with valse de la lune IIRC?) and you said Mieville should just take these cool worldbuilding ideas that clutter up his novels and sell them as flashcards.

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http://arilou-skiff.livejournal.com/

at 10:57 on 2016-04-05Mieville has always felt weird in that he's half literati and half pulp, and seems to really enjoy both parts.

RE: Believing victim, IIRC Yagharek was pretty insistent that yes, he had committed a crime (though not disclosing was it was) and yes, it was a bad one. It's just that until he was directly confronted with the possibility of *what* that crime was, Isaac could feign ignorance about what it might imply to have committed a crime.

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Arthur B

at 11:28 on 2016-04-05

RE: Believing victim, IIRC Yagharek was pretty insistent that yes, he had committed a crime (though not disclosing was it was) and yes, it was a bad one. It's just that until he was directly confronted with the possibility of *what* that crime was, Isaac could feign ignorance about what it might imply to have committed a crime.

That's it.

To give Mieville his due, one thing I did quite like about that arc - or at least, the way I remember it - was how Isaac basically tossed aside any consideration of what Yagharek's crime might have been (and now that you remind me, I do vaguely remember Yagharek regularly being like "No, seriously, I did a really bad thing"), partly because of precisely the sort of issues James outlines with it not really being in Isaac's interests to question the point too deeply, partly down to Isaac blithely assuming "Oh, it's some cultural thing, Garuda are so ~exotic~ and ~inscrutable~ so I probably wouldn't understand it anyway."

So perhaps the handling of it is a bit more nuanced than we're giving China credit for, since it does involve Isaac assuming a stance of self-serving ignorance until he is confronted with the cold, hard, undeniable facts.

Doesn't change the fact that it feels like a cheap shot from out of left field when you read it though - or the fact that it comes slightly too late for the moment to really have the resonance it deserves.

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Sören Heim

at 12:35 on 2016-04-05

To that extent I disagree that Mieville isn't into "show, don't tell" - the real problem is that he just tells us stuff that could have been more interesting if he showed it and shows us stuff which he should perhaps just told us about and moved on.

Yes, that's a more accurate way of putting it. I seem to have completely repressed the Mayor & Demon part of the book.

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Arthur B

at 12:42 on 2016-04-05On the point about Mieville apparently not liking Isaac at all - I think the rape revelation kind of lends a bit of credence to that. Think about it: not only has Isaac's life been thoroughly, absolutely, comprehensively trashed, but right at the end he finds out that all this trouble happened because he decided to help someone who, now that he knows exactly what they have done, he doesn't even want to know anymore.

Not only has Isaac destroyed himself, but he's destroyed himself for no reason. The dude never gets a break; had the book gone on for five more pages I wouldn't have been surprised if Mieville had himself manifest in front of Isaac, kick him square in the balls, and take a piss on him as he lay twitching in agony on the floor.

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Sören Heim

at 15:05 on 2016-04-05Since I haven't read any of his others I can only judge from this book, but does it have to be about liking Isaac, or couldn't it just be that Mieville wants to paint a rather bleak picture of life in general (or life under capitalism at least, which would fit with his political persuasion). None of the more idealistic characters seem to have a lot turning out well for them.

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Arthur B

at 16:23 on 2016-04-05He does have a tendency towards downer endings and plot arcs that tend to project characters into dustbins. Though some of the downer endings show a bit more... kindness? compassion?... for the protagonists in question. (I'm thinking in particular of the end of

The Iron Council

.)

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James D

at 21:42 on 2016-04-05The funny thing is, of the novels I've read, I like Isaac by far the most out of any of Mieville's protagonists. He's clearly not perfect, but his failings are understandable and he's generally likeable. I mean his greatest problem is that he has trouble doing the right thing when it means great personal inconvenience and possibly hardship - something everyone struggles with.

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Ichneumon

at 17:02 on 2016-04-07I think this is part of why I stick with short fiction when it comes to writers like Miéville: The brevity forces a greater degree of focus, the ideas are mostly self-contained, and even the most frustrating characters don't overstay their welcome.

Which is ironic, given that I actually *do* enjoy self-indulgent digressions and "pointless" events should they be appropriately interesting or amusing in their own right. But the problem is, length increases time, and time increases the potential for impatience, particularly in novels; and because of this, novels tend to have an expected progression and degree of efficiency which undercuts the novelist's ability to spread their scope beyond a certain point.

Incidentally, I wouldn't be surprised if the turn-of-the-century "social novel" is one of Miéville's inspirations in how he structures his work. Zola and his kin certainly aligned with his political views, and the idea that every angle of a broader conflict should be explored in depth regardless of whether the individual stories really cohere beyond thematic continuity or just "fitting the whole world in a book" seems appealing to his personality and aesthetics. Likewise, the cadence of his prose has a definite hard realist feel despite the subject matter being moderately to exceedingly fantastical more often than not.

That said, the thrill of the panopticon is in seeing *everything,* and while I do think that eliding certain events is key to giving an impression of how much is going on, your comments give me the impression that more time could have been given to underexplored ideas to balance out the satirical and tangential asides.

But I dunno. I'm not very keen on whaling on books for seemingly deliberate structural choices when I can understand why they're there, even if I don't agree with them. Maybe this just reflects my impatience with how people look at novels. I get that it's somewhat of a necessity to consider them through the lens of narrative efficiency based on the time investment involved, and I do love a gripping, tightly focused read—The Shadow of the Torturer had me hurtling along at lightning speed, and I do rather enjoy a good potboiler or breezy vacation book now and then—but as I said, I also like when stuff gets convoluted and digressive and messy, and if the only point of a scene is to expound upon a theme or show a cool idea or make the world feel richer, then so be it.

However, those scenes are best when they come back to bite you in the end, especially if they seem completely meaningless at first. Incidentally, the work of fiction that immediately comes to mind in this arena is not a book (exactly), but the webcomic Homestuck, which, say what you will about it otherwise, is basically a master class on how to make the average reader think you're just throwing random shit at them and then bring it back with a grisly vengeance when they least expect it. Hussie really goes all the way down the Pynchonian self-reference rabbit hole in ways that are almost sui generis, for better or worse, and assuming that anything is simply fluff is often a mortal mistake.

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Ichneumon

at 17:33 on 2016-04-07P.S. To be quite honest, I don't especially care if he had to shoehorn in the slake-moths or the Weaver, because they are both really fun concepts if nothing else, and stuffing in fun concepts because fuck you, I'm China Miéville seems like a better rationale than, for instance, the publisher-mandated sex scene meme.

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James D

at 02:00 on 2016-04-08The thing is, that's exactly the central problem of the novel - if he wanted to write a "social novel" (something I'd probably really really enjoy if it were set in a crazy fantasy world), then the central "monster hunt" plot was terribly ill-fitting and simplistic and distracting from the genuinely interesting stuff (I found the strike-breaking scene much more interesting than the moth crap). If he wanted to write a "monster hunt" story then all the extraneous social novel stuff only served to slow down what needed to be a fast-paced thrill ride full of derring-do and whatnot. It's just a bad marriage from the ground up.

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Sören Heim

at 13:55 on 2016-04-08

It's just a bad marriage from the ground up.

- Yes. I'd have loved to read some kind of Perdido-Street-Ulysses (if well executed) and I might have liked a faced paced mothhunt ( it wouldn't have to be moths, though). It's not that I want the book to be something it just isn't, but to be at least one of the things it could be instead of trying for a bunch of them and failing at every one. Although the more I read the less I felt that Mievilles worldbuilding would allow for deeper exploration. It is opulent, but it often seems like he just took social problems he wanted to make a point about and constructed a fantastic equivalent, without worrying too much if it fits all together.

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Ichneumon

at 06:47 on 2018-08-08Hmmm.

Looking back on my prior comments after having read

The Scar

and loved it (while acknowledging that it does have its faults and weird aspects), I really do wonder how I’d feel about

Perdido Street Station

. To be frank, I can see many of the issues you have with this novel reflected in that one, and... wasn’t bothered by them at all? Your description does suggest a rougher work, maybe Miéville feeling out the tack he wanted to take with these novels, but there’s a lot there I’m sure you’d take umbrage with that I actually adored. It’s certainly an acquired taste, however, and not exactly subtle thematically speaking.