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daddyjackfrost · 2 years

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darling ; dream x f!reader

sandman masterlist

read my sandman series stay with me here

The Dreaming, a realm of dreams and nightmares, was the home to many, including Dream of the Endless and his wife, Lady of The Dreaming.

In contrast to her husband, Lady of The Dreaming was a soft and gentle soul. The light to his dark. The dream to his nightmare. While Dream managed everything that occurred in the night, the nightmares and creatures, His Lady managed The Dreaming in the day, the more mundane of dreamers. Those who drifted in and out of their realm; the children, the elderly, and the night owls.

It was a good life. A happy, loving, joyful life. One that Morpheus and his Lady wouldn’t have traded for anything. They were content, and so in love.

Until the King of Dreams and Nightmares was captured. For over a century.

80 years later…

Lucienne, the head librarian of The Dreaming, paced in front of the crumbling library doors. The library was one of the only places in The Dreaming that remained upright. As the rest of the realm withered away, Lucienne and the Lady tried their best to keep the Library—Morpheus’s favourite place—as intact as they could. All their belief and love was channeled towards the tower filled with books as old as time.

With a hesitant knock, the librarian waited for an invitation.

“Come in, Lucienne.”

Pushing the door open, Lucienne’s eyes landed on the slumped figure of her Ladyship. As she had been doing for years now, the Lady of the Dreaming stared out of the Library’s grand window. She watched her realm, the one she had loved and taken care of for thousands of years, deteriorate into rubble.

Lucienne threaded her fingers together. Not only had she watched her home turn into nothing, she watched her Queen, once lively and the heart of the Dreaming, turn into an empty shell of the God she once was.

“Can I make you some tea, my Ladyship? Perhaps a meal?”

The Lady turned her head and smiled at her old friend. Without Lucienne, the Dreaming would have crumbled completely long ago. She patted the empty space next to her. “Come sit, Lucienne. I could use the company of a friend.”

Lucienne smiled and sat next to her Lady. Together, they both travelled deep within their minds, recalling old memories of their home, when it was once beautiful and filled with imagination.

“I wonder what Morpheus thinks about, trapped in that glass. I have not seen him since Corinthian made Burgess place a shielding spell. Do you think he knows we have not abandoned him?”

Lucienne hesitated. Ever since Jessamy was killed, there had been no news about the King of Dreams. Shifting her eyes to the Lady, Lucienne took in her sullen eyes, her glazed skin, and the slight tremble of her hands.

“Lord Morpheus is smart. That being said, I’m sure he does not know that his absence has resulted in… this.” Lucienne wanted to console her Ladyship, but there was little to offer. “He thinks about you, I’m sure.”

The Lady of The Dreaming clapped her hands and stood, smoothing out her long black dress. “Yes, he must. Let’s make our rounds, Lucienne. Perhaps we shall find something unusual today.”

Together, a librarian and a God in love walked the planes of their home, hand in hand, welcoming the warmth and comfort they offered the other, knowing they had little time left.

100 years later…

Dark, silver and blue eyes watched as Alex Burgess’s wheelchair wiped away the containment spell that had kept Dream, King of the Dreaming, captive for over a century.

Paul, Alex’s lover, turned back to look at the strange and powerful man. With the slightest nod, he pushed Alex’s wheelchair towards the door. This was the last time either man would come to the basement. They had hoped that this final offering would spare them.

Dream let out the softest of breaths, he could feel the freedom that awaited him. With the slightest stretch of his muscles, Dream stood. The hum around him grew louder, and settled deep within his heart.

With what remaining power he had, Dream broke free from his prison. Putting the guards to sleep, Dream rolled his shoulders. Before he reunited with his love, his wife, he had someone else he needed to take care of.

Alex Burgess had to pay for his crime. And the crimes of his father.

An unfortunate becoming, Dream thought. To pay for a father’s crime.

With a deep breath, Dream travelled to Alex Burgess’s dreams.

“Hello,” Dream spoke slowly. His voice carried through Alex’s mind, wrapping around his subconscious and drowning him.

Alex Burgess's eyes widened into a look Dream had come to familiarize with.

Fear.

“It’s you. You’re… you’re free.”

Dream stood, in all his dark glory. “I am. Do you have any idea what it was like? Confined in a cage for a century?” There was malice in his voice, running deeper than Dream’s thirst for vengeance. “Do you understand the damage you’ve done to your world?”

Alex shook his head, trying to back away from the very entity that had haunted his waking hours for years. “I’m sorry,” the man cried, “I didn’t know. Please.”

Dream stepped closer to the frightened man and leaned down. His eyes glowed and his anger simmered. “Your punishment, then, shall be a gift.” Dream had not missed the wince that came from Alex Burgess. After all, it was his father’s selfish need for a gift that had killed him.

“I give you this, the gift… of eternal… sleep.”

With a blow of sand, Alex Burgess was put to sleep for eternity.

Morpheus, now completely free of human control, thought of home. His realm. His love.

With no time wasted, Dream opened a gateway to The Dreaming. He was going home, back to his sweet lover.

Dark grains of sand prickled Dream’s face. With power he seemed to lack, Morpheus had gracefully landed in his realm on his side, weak.

“Sir? Sir!”

A familiar, feminine voice called out to Dream, and for just a human second, he imagined it to be his lover. Footsteps ran closer, and Dream tried to open his eyes.

“Oh, my goodness. It’s me.” Lucienne crouched beside her Lord. “It’s Lucienne.”

With a soft gasp, Morpheus opened his eyes. A burst of something warm washed over him, seeing his librarian. His loyal, forever liable librarian.

“Lucienne,” Morpheus said weakly.

Lucienne's lips pulled into a smile, her eyes glazed. “You’re home, my Lord.” She put her hand out.

Reaching for her hand, Morpheus’s eyes twinkled. “I am.”

Pulling her Master up, Lucienne and Morpheus stared at each other. Unspoken words, apologies, and questions hovered in the air between them. But Lucienne just smiles, and Morpheus nodded once.

They both begin the trek back to the palace, and Lucienne watches as her Lord takes in the outskirts of The Dreaming. How dull and unkept it has become.

Once they reached the doors to The Dreaming, Lucienne cleared her throat. “Forgive me, sir, but the realm… the palace… they are not as you left them.”

Morpheus pushed open the large doors. His eyes scanned the view before him. A piece of his heart broke, seeing his creation, his realm, in this state.

With a deeper, emotional undertone, Morpheus asked, “What happened here? Who did this?”

Lucienne threaded her fingers together. Her eyes on the tower, where she knew her Lady was residing.

“My lord, you are The Dreaming, The Dreaming is you. With you gone for as long as you were, everything began to crumble and decay.”

“What of the residents? The palace staff?”

Lucienne did not miss his true intention. What of my Queen? Where is she?

“Gone, sir. Most are gone.”

Morpheus' eyes lit with a dull fire. “Had they so little faith in me? That I would return?”

Lucienne wishes she could have been honest with him. Tell him just how his absence had affected the realm, the residents. She wished she could have reminded him of the Endless that had abandoned their realm. But she held her tongue. Like the loyal servant she was.

“What of my Queen, Lucienne? Where is she?” Morpheus wished he sounded less fearful.

Lucienne hesitated, and then she sighed. “She is here, my Lord.” Stepping next to Dream, Lucienne pointed at the palace tower, the library. “She is there. Waiting for you.”

Without hesitation, Morpheus began walking towards the palace. Once he reunited with his love, held her in his arms, he could think about his realm and the damage he had yet to repair.

Lucienne followed her Lord quickly behind him. As they reached the palace, Lucienne opened her mouth. “Sir… If I may?”

The hesitation in Lucienne’s voice put Morpheus on edge. Turning his head slightly back, he raised his eyebrow at Lucienne. “Speak, Lucienne.”

“In your absence, The Dreaming began to fall apart. The only reason it is still standing, is because her Ladyship has commanded it to. She is powerful, sir, but not as strong as you. For a century she has used power she does not hold, and it has taken a toll on her.”

Lucienne watched as Morpheus' back became rigid, how he flexed his fingers just to clench them.

“Like The Dreaming, I’m afraid she’s dying, my Lord. She’s carrying the weight of The Dreaming, and it was not meant for her.”

Morpheus stopped in front of the Library doors. He stood stiller than Lucienne had ever seen him. Power and anger rolled off him, and Lucienne squeezed her hands together harder. With a tone she had yet to hear, Morpheus spoke.

“Thank you, Lucienne. Leave me to mend the heart and strength of my Queen.”

Lucienne nodded, bowing. “Of course, my Lord.”

Before Lucienne could walk away, in a smaller voice, Dream asked her the one question that had haunted him for a century.

“Does she hate me, Lucienne?”

With no hesitation, Lucienne answered. “No, sir. She loves you just as much as you love her. If not more.”

Morpheus waited until Lucienne’s became a faint whisper. With a newfound fear, he brought his pale, slightly trembling hand to the door and knocked, once.

“Come in, Lucienne.”

Morpheus’s eyes fluttered. With a deep breath, he pushed open the library doors. Morpheus’s eyes landed on his Queen, sitting on a simple seat that looked like a throne. Morpheus’s dark eyes travelled the length of his lover, taking in her weaker body and sullen eyes.

“Darling,” Morpheus whispered.

With speed that had long died, Lady of The Dreaming turned her head to face her husband. Her eyes met his, glazed and remorseful, and she stood.

With parted lips, the Lady whispered, “Morpheus?”

As magnets do, or souls bounded by fate, Morpheus and his lover pulled towards each other. Arms and bodies tangled together, and they both took their first breath. Scents of the other filled their bodies and their hearts beat as one.

Morpheus tightened his arms around his lover, and let out a sigh at the feeling of her hands in his hair. Their bodies fused together as one, unknown to them where one started and the other ended.

His Queen pulled away, just enough to rest her forehead against his. “Am I dreaming, Morpheus? Please say no, I cannot handle it. Are you really here?”

Morpheus’s voice, thick with emotion, came from deep within his body. “I am here, my love. I am here.” At the sound of a quiet, broken sob, Morpheus pressed a kiss to his Queen’s forehead. “Oh, my darling. My love. My Queen. I am here.”

Fragile hands tightened their grip on his robes. Morpheus lifted his hand from his lover’s waist and placed it on her cheek. “You’ll never be alone again, I promise.”

Lady of The Dreaming nodded, believing her King. She could feel his trembling fingers. “It was horrible without you, my love. I…” She lifted her eyes to meet Morpheus’s. His eyes were screaming at her. Tell me everything. Be honest with me. I’m sorry. I love you.

“I am tired.”

Morpheus shut his eyes. When he spoke, his breath tickled her cheeks. “I know, darling. I’m sorry.”

Then, Lady of The Dreaming asked her husband for the thing she had wanted–needed– for over a century.

“Kiss me, Morpheus. Please.”

Knowing he owed her much more, Morpheus brought his lips to hers. Her lips were soft, almost silken, and untouched against his. Morpheus could feel the soft tickle of her breath beneath his nose, fingers carding through his hair and he breathed her in.

Pulling each other closer, the King and Queen of The Dreaming used their bodies to convey all their words, the apologies and confessions that had gone long unsaid.

Their reunion pleased The Dreaming, and as the King and Queen mended their relationship, The Dreaming began to mend itself.

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calqlate · 5 months

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LOVE, MAYBE | TWO

— LOVE, PERHAPS

SERIES MASTERLIST | PREVIOUS CHAPTER | NEXT CHAPTER

PAIRING: crown prince! kageyama tobio x f! crown princess! reader

SUMMARY: after taking your younger sister's place in a political marriage involving the crown prince of the neighboring kingdom of karasuno, you resigned yourself to a loveless marriage. little did you know, the prince has loved you for a while now and plans to win you over.

GENRE(S): arranged marriage au + royal au + fluff + one-sided pining (which later becomes mutual)

WC: 3128

TAGLIST: @deeomi

A/N: i forgot i had already written this and i just needed to edit it LMAO (clown emoji). n e ways, enjoy!

"your ladyship, his highness the crown prince is here to see you."

you were still keeping your gaze focused on the words on the thick management textbook in front of you. as you wrote down some notes on the margin of the textbook, you replied, "he may enter."

the large double doors swung open and in walked the prince, in all his glory, except... he had arrived with a huge bouquet of flowers clasped in his gloved hands. this was very out-of-character for the stoic prince, and this shocked the maids and butlers, who had (definitely) not expected to see the bloodthirsty prince with flowers in his hands. all the servants held back their breath as prince tobio walked right up to you, brows furrowed and eyes fixated on his fiancée who had not yet looked up to see him. he stopped short in front of your desk and you placed your pen down carefully before looking up at him. upon spying the grand bouquet in his hands, you raised your eyebrows, "what—"

"these are for you, my lady," he choked out, thrusting the bouquet into your face, "i thought these flowers suit you very well."

all eyes were on you as you awkwardly accepted the flowers, pretty much using your arms to wrap themselves around the lower half where the stems were. you eyed the pink arrangement of roses, asters, and lilies before looking up at the prince, "thank you, your highness. i appreciate your gift."

"do you..." his cheeks turned pink as his voice dropped drastically in volume and he averted his gaze to the side, "do you like them?"

"well..." you paused, watching his facial expressions carefully, "do you want me to be honest?"

he nodded, still avoiding your gaze.

"i appreciate the thought behind this, but..." you paused, then decided to take a leap of faith and be truthful (as he had said), "actually, i don't really like flowers."

an awkward and tense silence soon followed after the words left your mouth. prince tobio was pretty much frozen in sheer shock, she doesn't like flowers?! then again, never did he once thought of considering the possibility that you did not have a liking for flowers.

"i... i see," he coughed. feeling the embarrassment creep in, he said, "i have some matters to attend to, so i'll leave first. enjoy the rest of your day."

with that, he turned and exited your study, leaving you with a bunch of flowers in your hands and deathly silent servants.

"call the two hostlers in," prince tobio said with a sigh once he was safely in his own study, massaging his temples with furrowed brows. is courting girls supposed to be this difficult?

a few minutes later, hinata brought the hostlers in, who were both starry-eyed and were definitely expecting good news out of the advice that they had given to the prince.

"so, was her ladyship completely starstruck? lovestruck, even?" tanaka asked, grinning from ear to ear as he looked at the prince with hopeful eyes.

"did it go as planned, your highness?" nishinoya asked, his smile mirroring that of tanaka's.

the day that hinata had led prince tobio to tanaka and nishinoya, the two hostlers had given the prince some advice on the day itself.

"your highness, do you know what ladies really like?" tanaka said with a sly grin.

prince tobio shook his head, completely clueless. that itself was a given, since the prince had never gotten into a relationship before as he had dedicated his life to protecting the kingdom and learning how to be a good king to his subjects. to the prince, there was no space in his tightly packed schedule for romance.

"flowers," nishinoya piped up, "especially roses."

"why roses, specifically?" prince tobio asked, cocking his head to the side. was there a particular reason why roses were so popular among the ladies?

tanaka and nishinoya would have made a snide comment on how the prince was pretty much doomed to a life of being chronically single if his parents had not intervened to find a bride for him, but refrained from doing so lest they wanted their heads to roll off the guillotine. after all, he was the crown prince, and he was therefore the second-most powerful after the king himself. lopping off anyone else's head would be easy enough for him as long as he willed it to happen.

"that's because roses are a symbol of love in the language of flowers, your highness," tanaka explained, "if you give her ladyship roses, i'm certain that she will be able to see your feelings and accept them quickly!"

"no," prince tobio replied sharply, glaring at the two hostlers so harshly that shivers went up their spines, "she doesn't even like flowers."

tanaka's and nishinoya's eyes widened. this was the first time that they have ever heard of a lady not liking flowers at all. they glanced over at each other with an incredulous look on their faces, is her ladyship some sort of weird recluse?!

"is something the matter?" prince tobio asked, eyeing the two's non-verbal communication in front of him.

"n-no! nothing's wrong at all, your highness!" nishinoya said and shook his head vigorously.

"we're just surprised at how... unique her ladyship is!" tanaka said, faking a laugh, "there's no one quite as extraordinary as she is! am i right, nishinoya?"

he elbowed his friend, to which the latter laughed along with tanaka.

"well, what else do ladies like?" prince tobio asked, a frustrated crease appearing between his brows as he closed his eyes to think of something to remedy that day's situation as well.

"quality time!" nishinoya piped up, and prince tobio flung his eyes open to look at the shorter hostler, "if you spend more time around her ladyship, i'm sure she'll come to notice your affections a lot more!"

"spend time with her..." prince tobio muttered under his breath, then asked, "you mean, i have to set up a date with her or something?"

"not necessarily, your highness," tanaka said, "you can review documents together. you know, you just have to be by her side." he grinned, then continued, "it doesn't matter what you're doing. your presence is all that matters."

initially, you paid no mind when prince tobio said that he would be reviewing his documents while seated in your study. however, after a couple of minutes, you got rather concerned and, honestly, a little disturbed when you could feel the intensity of his gaze on your face. whenever you turned to look at him, he would immediately look back at his paperwork, pretending he had not been staring at you before. after what seemed like the twentieth time of doing so, you sighed and placed your pen down on your desk and looked at the prince, "your highness, please, just tell me what you want instead of staring at me like that."

he turned pink as he turned his head to the side, not wanting to make any sort of eye contact at all, "t-there's nothing in particular. i was simply... resting my eyes."

"your highness, looking at the greenery is a better solution to resting your eyes than staring at my face," you said, pushing your chair back as you stood up, "that being said, do you want to go on a walk with me?"

he whirled his head around and met your gaze with wide, confused eyes. he had never expected you to ask him to go on a walk together, but he was by no means disappointed, nor was he going to complain. instead, the corners of his lips curled upwards just very slightly as he, too, stood up, abandoning his paperwork, "sure. it's about time for me to take a break from reviewing these documents, anyway."

and so that was how the both of you exited the crown prince's palace to take a leisurely walk in the gardens. the air was fresh and the weather was rather cool, and it was all in all a perfect day to go on a walk. the both of you were not linking arms whatsoever and were maintaining a respectable distance between each other. an awkward silence hung in the air as you strolled about with the crown prince, looking anywhere else but each other: prince tobio was doing such so that he would not meet your gaze, and you were doing such because you thought that staring at him for a beat too long would be considered rude and improper.

"um, your highness, about that day," you were the first to break the ice, "i can explain."

"it's alright, it was my fault," prince tobio said, "i should've asked you about your preferences beforehand. i didn't know that you didn't like flowers."

"it's not that i don't like them," you said, "i simply think that they're kind of a waste. i mean, they die after a while, so i'd have to throw them out anyway and it'd be pointless." you then realised how your words could have been misinterpreted as you disregarding the prince's good intentions, so you added hastily, "i mean, i like things that last long. i don't like throwing my gifts away."

"oh, i see," prince tobio said, furrowing his brows together, so she likes things that can be kept and maintained.

"thank you for the flowers, though," you said. he turned to face you, only to see a small smile on your face as you said, "i liked them. really."

he felt his own cheeks begin to burn and he turned his head away before you could catch a glimpse of his red cheeks. he coughed, "i-i can get more for you if you'd like — ah, wait, you don't like flowers."

you laughed, "you learn fast, don't you, your highness?"

"s-shut up, dumbass," he muttered before trudging ahead of you, dying to bury his crimson face somewhere before anyone could catch sight of it and make fun of him for it. rumours of the prince turning red at a mere compliment would overwrite his image of having a cold exterior, which would not be good for him in court.

you watched as he walked on ahead and you picked up your pace to catch up, amusement seeping into your being. this side of the prince was a stark contrast to what you had heard about him.

perhaps he was not so bad of a person after all.

"so, how did it go, your highness?" the two hostlers looked at the prince with bated breath, hoping with all of their hearts that something positive happened this time, or it would really be off with their heads.

"she smiled at me," prince tobio said with an excited look in his eyes, but then frowned shortly afterwards after recalling your subsequent teasing, "oh, but she seemed to be making fun of me."

"t-that's okay, your highness! it's a positive step forward!" nishinoya said and held up two thumbs-up, smiling, "her ladyship is warming up to you!"

"really?" prince tobio looked at the two hostlers with wide, hopeful eyes that resembled those of an anticipating puppy waiting for praise.

"yes!" tanaka said, "so don't fret, your highness! you're doing really well!"

prince tobio's eyes were sparkling again, and tanaka and nishinoya looked at each other. They did not have the heart to not tell him that it could possibly be a negative sign as well, because lady qq might have actually been making fun of him.

"anyway! your highness, there's this last method you should try," tanaka said with a wink, "it'll be sure to catch her ladyship's heart—" — he snapped his fingers — "in an instant! just like that!"

"what is it?" prince tobio was more than intrigued to hear what tanaka had to offer.

"well," tanaka said, a proud grin on his face, "it's..."

"your ladyship, his highness the crown prince requests you to go to the greenhouse for tea with him."

you rubbed your temples. you were fatigued from the lessons from the past few weeks: you had been receiving supplemental crash courses on the additional aspects of ruling that you had not learnt while you were receiving classes as the heir to your father's duchy. a kingdom was far larger than a dukedom, so of course there were more things that rulers of kingdoms were subjected to know compared to those of dukedoms. you had barely been able to keep up, but miraculously, you were still functioning and capable of sitting in your study to absorb more material. maybe it was the studies that your parents had subjected you to that allowed your brain to absorb a little more information.

"alright, i'll go over to him now," you said, standing up.

you sucked in a breath and headed straight to the greenhouse with some maids accompanying you. truth to be told, you would love nothing more than to catch a couple of z's in your bedroom than be drinking tea with the prince. sure, he was your fiancé-to-be, but you prioritised your rest above all. you could not believe you still had the energy to smile and sit there with the prince despite all of your body’s cells screaming at you to get some sleep.

"you're here," prince tobio said as soon as you approached the table.

"thank you for preparing the tea," you said as you curtseyed before sitting down.

"the maids said that you like milk tea, so i've prepared that for today's tea session," he said, "and i heard that you like sweet foods, so i've prepared more sweet snacks."

you noted the milk tea in your cup, as well as the assortment of cakes and scones on the table before you turned to him, "thank you, your highness. i appreciate it."

slowly, you picked up your teacup and took a sip out of it, letting the sweet taste of the drink bloom across your tongue. you could hear the prince talking, but you could not bring your focus onto any of his words at all. it was as though you were stuck in some sort of container made of thick glass and you could barely hear what the people on the other end were saying. you closed your eyes for a second before opening them again, just before you felt something trickling down your nose. you lifted a hand up towards your face to wipe your nose and pulled away before looking down at your fingers, only to see red liquid smudging your fingertips. you looked back up at the prince and made eye contact before you felt all of your remaining strength leave your body and your eyes roll back into your skull.

your vision was coming back, little by little.

it was a little hazy at first when you first cracked your eyes open. however, the more you cranked them open by sheer force and determination, the fog started to clear up as clarity crept back into your eyesight.

"my lady!"

you felt someone grab your hand firmly and warmly, and you slowly turned your head to the side to see who it was. it was prince tobio, who was seated by your bedside with both of his hands clasped around your hand. concern was evident in his blue eyes as he locked eyes with you. you immediately tried to sit up, and he assisted you in doing so, until you were seated up properly with a pillow safely supporting your back.

"how are you feeling?" he asked, his brows creased together in concern.

"i feel fine," you muttered, your voice raspy. honestly, you felt as though you were in a confused daze, as though you had been asleep for an extensive period of time. you asked, "how long was i asleep for?"

"two days," he replied, then his frown deepening as he said, "you've been over-working yourself, haven't you?"

"i..." you were at a loss for words. you, too, were not sure how much or far you had pushed yourself because every single day had passed in one indistinct blur.

"you did," he answered in your stead, "and that's how your body finally crashed."

you stayed mute as he breathed out a sigh from his nose as he squeezed your hand gently, "studying is good, but don't push yourself too hard."

you looked at him with a confused look on your face, why would you care? i'm just someone you're forced to marry, anyway.

as if he could read your thoughts, he answered, "i worry because i'm your husband." he paused, then corrected himself, "well, husband-to-be, but that's not the point."

he cast his gaze down at your hands as he picked both of them up and held them gently, as if they were fragile glass pieces that could shatter with one wrong move, "please take care of yourself."

he looked back up at you to observe your facial expressions: your face was completely neutral and seemingly guarded as you met his gaze. disappointment filled his lungs as he said, "i'll leave you to rest."

gingerly, he let go of her hands (that he had placed on her lap) before getting up from the chair and leaving your room, not before taking some extra precautions with your maids and butler. as the door swung shut behind him, he sighed, looks like that didn't work, either.

"what is it?" prince tobio was more than intrigued to hear what tanaka had to offer, leaning forward and hanging onto his every word as if he were preaching the holy word.

"well," tanaka said, a proud grin on his face, "it's... to be a gentleman towards her! nothing else beats a guy who treats her well."

"what on earth, ryuu!" nishinoya smacked tanaka's bicep, "what if her ladyship likes guys that degrade her and stuff? you know, the mean types!"

"i don't think she does," tanaka retorted with a frown, "what kind of crazy psycho—" — then, upon remembering that he was talking about the future crown princess here, he quickly stopped himself mid-sentence and changed his words — "i mean, person would reject flowers?" he added, "my guess is that she's not the innocent sort that would love a bad boy to sweep her off her feet." he grinned, "wanna bet, noya?"

i suppose it's another fail today, then, prince tobio sighed as he walked down the hallway.

however, if he had chosen to turn around and take a sneak peek into the room, he would have seen the telltale blush rising on your cheeks.

#💫—love maybe #💫—qq writes #writeblr #writing #kageyama x reader #kageyama x y/n #kageyama x yn #kageyama x you #kageyama #kageyama tobio x reader #kageyama tobio x y/n #kageyama tobio x yn #kageyama tobio x you #kageyama tobio #haikyuu x reader #haikyuu x y/n #haikyuu x yn #haikyuu x you #haikyuu

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ten-cent-sleuth · 7 months

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A Galling Yoke, Part 12

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for the “Where did this come from?” square on my July Break Bingo card

See this post for main info, including a masterlist and synopsis. See this post for warnings.

Word Count: 4.1k

Pairing: Sherlock Holmes x f!Reader

Rating: Teen

Baker Street, despite the sun lowering towards the horizon, was awake and moving when you stepped foot on it. A chill breeze blew through you, pricking at your already numbed face. Almost there, you tried to reassure yourself, with as much success as you tried warming up by chafing your frozen hands against your frozen shoulders.

Even when you got to Sherlock’s building, however, reassurance was not at hand. You knocked, and his landlady graciously let you enter and stay by his door—apparently, he had given her a note weeks ago that anyone bearing your name was to be let into the building—but he was not at home. Still. Sitting on the landing outside his flat and folding into yourself was the most rest and comfort you’d experienced in… Well, you didn’t know how long. And it was warm. So very warm…

You were aware of how rudely you’d been awoken before you were aware that you’d dozed off.

“Your ladyship!” shouted a voice as the attached hand jostled you. “You must wake, now!”

You glared up at the blurry face before you. “Must I, ma’am?” You blinked a few times. “That is—sir… Sherlock?”

The crease in his brow collapsed, like dead weight plunging to the floor. “My lady,” he breathed. “You terrorised me. You were shivering, and your skin was ice cold—do you not know that you cannot sleep when you are too cold, lest you never—?” He broke off, but you nodded in understanding.

“I have been walking outside for hours.”

You had meant to comfort him by offering up an explanation for why you were so cold, but he only looked more alarmed. “Hours?” he said. “It has been snowing all—how—why—?”

Your eyes widened as you remembered exactly why. “Oh, Sherlock,” you exclaimed, lurching to your feet. “I have uncovered— That is, I have— Oh dear, I feel rather strange of a sudden…”

Blood rushing to your head, you stumbled a little and would have fallen down the staircase if Sherlock did not catch you and heft you back up.

“Forgive me,” you mumbled. Held close to his body heat, you felt drowsier than ever. “For this, and for the thing…the thing a few days ago…the things I said. Forgive me, Sherlock—Mr Holmes.”

“My lady…”

With a hum, you nuzzled into his chest. This already felt like forgiveness.

But then the soft support you were leaning against stiffened. “Your ladyship. Where did this come from?”

“Hmm? Ow!”

However gently, he had touched your scalp, and you realised suddenly that the area was stinging. Your hands flew up to prod at the tender skin as your memory rewound a bit and recalled your abductor striking you in the head hard enough to knock you out cold.

“Well, sir—”

“And these?” interrupted Sherlock, grabbing your wrists with one hand and turning them over to his sight. “Where did these burns come from? What has happened to you?”

Begrudgingly, you leaned away from him to get a better look at what had him so vexed. “Oh,” you mumbled: your palms were bright red and blistering. When had that happened? “Oh, right.”

“Who did this to you?” he growled.

“Ah, you see, the burns I actually gave myself—”

“What?”

“—but they were necessary! In all likelihood, I turned out much better than he.” You paused as your own words sunk in. You had left that man to die. What if he actually had?

But Sherlock interrupted such thoughts with a waspish, “He?” Shrewd eyes scanned you up and down, darkening with every statement that followed. “Your hair is an utter mess. Your dress is askew—your skirt is torn— Who is ‘he’?”

“I… I know not,” you admitted. “But I believe he is the hitman who was hired by—that is, who killed my husband. He was at Cable Street, summoned, I believe, by Mrs Kinley. And I was at Cable Street because…” Wait, should you explain the familial connection between the nurse and the hitman first? You pressed the back of your hand to your brow; your temples were starting to throb. “Forgive me, Mr Holmes. I am finding it rather difficult to think.”

Sherlock scowled at that but did not hesitate to move both of you to his door and to unlock it. “I shall get a fire going.” His fingers tightened around your arm where they had been heretofore guiding you gently forward, and you understood with a regretful cringe that he was thinking of—as you were—the last time you had been around the hearth in his flat. Still, a fire sounded divine.

He carefully lowered you into the seat nearest to the iron panel, and as you watched him start the fire, you felt your heart melt first. You had missed him. You had missed him terribly, and you couldn’t believe he would still speak to you—welcome you into his home, even. Unfortunately, little beyond your heart did much melting.

The cold had seeped through your clothes, leaving them damp and rigid, and into your skin, sinking down every layer to the bone marrow. You shivered as you watched the flames begin their dance.

And then a fluffy weight fell around your shoulders. You looked up and met Sherlock’s stormy gaze.

“I suspect you have caught a chill, my lady,” he said. “If the fire warms you not within the next few minutes, you shall require a hot bath.”

Your cheeks alone warmed a little at that.

“In any case,” he continued, “you ought to change out of those wet clothes, though it should not hurt to give you those few minutes to regain some strength.” He looked away, ostensibly to grab another blanket for your lap. “You may use that time to tell me what has occurred.”

Eyes lowered, you recounted your sudden realisation about Mrs Kinley, your visit to Miss Algar’s flat, your abduction, and your escape. You skipped over the details of your ordeal, partly because you were depleted of any energy to explain, partly because you didn’t want to voice them at all. Your audience seemed to know much was missing from your narration, but after a long look, he only gave you a nod instead of a barrage of questions.

“It was good of you to check in on them,” he murmured, brushing aside some hair stuck to your clammy forehead—absentmindedly, his gaze far away. “Even if Mrs Kinley is indeed family to the hitman, she may still be exploited—and endangered, along with Miss Algar—should she have been unaware all this time of his intentions. He may have merely told her to keep him apprised, without explaining his involvement, which would explain her chariness.”

You were halfway through a nod when a sneeze ripped through you.

Sherlock frowned. “We best get you out of those wet clothes and into bed. I ought to have some old articles of clothing somewhere for you to use.”

“Oh, that is not necessary, sir,” you stammered. “Simply hail a cab for me—I can pay, of course—and I shall return to Voss House—”

“No.”

“Mr Holmes, I cannot impose—”

“It shall not happen!”

You straightened in your seat, shoulders tensing. Sherlock groaned and dragged a hand down his face.

“I meant not to be…domineering,” he said. “But I would not want you in a hackney right now: it is dark and cold, you are ill and injured. Besides, am I not to assume that you came here…for a reason?”

He and you looked at each other for a long, open moment.

You let your shoulders drop. “You are correct, of course,” you said. “Only, I want not to be a burden while you visit with Mrs Kinley and…”

The shake of his head was so unyielding that you immediately fell silent.

“I shall not see her until Monday—or whenever you are well again.”

Your eyes widened. “But— But the case—”

“I care not for the case,” he said, quietly, intensely. “I have not worked on it for days, my lady, not since—” He pursed his lips for a beat. “Not exactly, at any rate. After my last few deductions, I made up my mind. I think there are certain crimes which the law cannot touch, and which therefore, to some extent, justify private revenge. No, it’s no use arguing. My sympathies are with he who was moved to kill rather than with he who was killed, and I would not handle this case. I shall return to Cable Street to see to Miss Algar’s security, and that is all.”

You stared up at him, caught completely off guard.

He looked down to consider the floorboards. “Of course, we shall have to deal with the hitman somehow. I have very limited sympathy for him.” He looked up, regarding your burns for a second before meeting your eyes. “However, we may worry about that on the morrow. Are you able to stand, my lady?”

“I believe so.”

He helped you to his bedroom, which made your head numb and your extremities cold all over again—you had never been in a gentleman’s chambers before, not even Edmund’s—and as he turned to exit and search for dry clothing to lend, you grabbed his wrist.

He stopped in his tracks.

“I… I apologise.” You let go of him, and while his muscles relaxed, his eyes crinkled in reaction. Not knowing what that meant, you brushed it aside. “Would you please send Voss House a note? My staff should not be made to worry about me.”

“Of course.” He paused. “Of course, that would be necessary. I ought to have thought of that.”

You blinked, and he was gone before you could ask him about his abnormal behaviour.

He came back with the clothes and, permitting you to change in privacy, left to send off the note. Alone, you allowed yourself to bask in the feeling of wearing Sherlock’s sleepwear old, worn, and warm. Long after you had returned these to him, you would carry that feeling, you knew.

After blowing out the candle, you got into bed and pulled the covers close, but when Sherlock came in, he did not hesitate to tuck you in even more snugly.

“I…thank you,” you whispered into the dark. “You do much, sir, and I really do regret the burden I…”

“Shh,” he replied, and you wished you could see where he was. He sounded close, but the dark could distort perception into either nightmare or fantasy.

As he bustled about the room, ensuring the windows were shut firmly and starting another fire in this fireplace, you started to drift off. The last thing you were aware enough to be sure of was his whispering, “You are never a burden, little petal.”

Your slumber was deep and restorative for the first few hours but soon transitioned into fitfulness. Chills wracked your physical frame while fever dreams wreaked havoc on your mental one, and your only relief was the caring touch of Sherlock’s apt fingers. Whether it was wiping your sweat and hair out of uncomfortable nooks or coaxing you to sip some water with prods to your chin, his touch was your anchor. Sometimes, the back of his hand on your forehead was the only snatch of the tangible world that you could get past the blurred outlines of your ailing state.

At a certain point, the mental fog thickened: during the night—at least, you assumed, though that assumption was merely based on the fact you had been sleeping—you had jerked awake with a whimper, grasping at your leg. You had heard Sherlock’s voice, but your brain tuned it out in favour of blaring at you make it stop make it stop make it stop.

“Hurts,” you’d gasped between jabs of pain around, under, and out of your right knee. You were speaking to yourself, and to anyone who’d listen, and to anyone who wouldn’t. “Hurts s’much. Please, please…”

He had said something. You couldn’t make out the words, but the soothing undertones had lulled you into trusting silence long enough for him to creak across the floorboards and vanish out the door. You’d stumbled, dizzy, into half-consciousness by the time he returned.

“Petal. My dear, open those darling eyes for me, I know you can.”

Though you’d swatted at his prodding hands with irked mutters, you’d opened your eyes.

He had tipped his head at you, grinning. “Very good. I thank you, my lady. Now, I have retrieved something for your pain. Open up.”

“What is it? I do not like laudanum—it is vile,” you had tried to say, but your tongue had felt too heavy, your throat too sticky. Instead, you had shaken your head as vehemently as your vertigo would allow.

He had sat on the bed and rubbed your arm up and down. “Please, do not distress yourself, petal. You are in pain, and it may get worse.”

Shuddering, you had recalled the last time you’d had a bad flare-up. It had left you bedridden for over a day, and it hadn’t been as provoked as this one surely had.

“Do you trust me?” he had whispered.

You had trembled with fatigue, depleted by the simple tasks of keeping your eyelids up and keeping your head above the waves of agony crashing over you. You hadn’t had energy to spare for talking, but you had wanted the words out. “Unreservedly,” you’d croaked. “No matter what.”

His smile had been tender then, and you had opened your mouth to accept whatever medicine he had procured, pungently bitter laudanum or not. Arm around your shoulders, he had helped you sit up and swallow it down. But he hadn’t let go even after that. Usually, when your knee acted up and started affecting your whole body, anybody else’s touch—even presence in the room—felt too much, but right then, with the illness and anguish caused by your recent ordeal, you had felt entirely cosy and right curled up against Sherlock’s chest. Just this once.

“It shall take a few minutes to take effect,” he’d said softly, his warm breath skimming over your skin.

“Mhmm.”

“Until it does, I wished to… I needed to…to clarify a fact…”

You’d hummed, prompting.

“Your leg. This injury, this pain of yours… It is Sulyard’s doing? If not for him, you would not be suffering right now?”

You’d hesitated, then opted to at least give him, if not an expounding answer, a small nod. Surely Sherlock could piece—had pieced—together the details: an argument, a raging husband, a smack, a stumble, a trip, a fall down the stairs.

The full force of those details had resounded in Sherlock’s timbre as he’d growled, “It is almost a shame that he is already dead, for I would gladly skin him now—but only almost, as I cannot repine the betterment of the world in his absence.”

You had buried your smile in his chest. As the medicine—or whatever it was—had started to take effect, you had found the strength to tell him, “’M so glad you’ve returned t’me, Sherlock…” You didn’t catch his reply.

That was the only moment you could recall with any clarity. Though there were more instances of almost-consciousness—you might have even heard the murmur of conversation at some point—the next time you were lucid, you could tell from the stiffness in your back and the grime caked on your skin that at least a couple of days had passed. With a groan, you shifted around on the bed to take stock of your poor vessel for this mortal coil.

Craning your neck this way and that on your pillow, you noted your head was still stuffed heavy and throbbing dully, though no longer fuzzy. Tensing and testing the muscles in your feet, your calves, and your thighs, you could tell your legs were sore and likely would be for some time, but they weren’t so irate with you anymore. Lifting your arms to stretch them, you found them unwieldy but that was no surprise—

What was, however, were the cloths wrapped securely around your hands. You held one close to your face, wheezing, “What on Earth…?”

Your mouth snapped shut as a groan—this one not yours—and the creaking of wood sounded throughout the room. Achingly sitting up, you spotted Sherlock sleeping—and fast awakening—in a chair too small for his wide frame.

Gracious. Has he been here the whole time?

He blinked his eyes open, and you blurted out, “Forgive me, sir; I did not mean to disturb you.”

“I do wish you would stop the constant apologies.”

“Forgi—” You bit your lip. “Ah, that is… Good morning?”

Disgruntlement cleared the lingering sleepiness on his face. “I would argue that it is more of a miraculous one.”

It was your turn to blink slowly. You opened your mouth to apologise for whatever you had apparently done to cause his poor mood, but remembered his rebuke in time. He did not wait for you to come up with something else to say.

“Your condition deteriorated abruptly yesterday,” he informed you grimly. “Your fever broke just as abruptly in the night, so I suppose it was a simple matter of getting worse before getting better, but I cannot… I could not…” Heaving a deep exhale, he veered to his feet. “I demand to know, your ladyship, why you went to Cable Street without me.”

Again, you blinked. That’s what his heartfelt speech led to? “I… I had been caught up in the urgency, I suppose, but I also… At the time, that is, I also thought of it as my burden to bear.”

Your voice had shrunk as you went on, and Sherlock’s next words were just as quiet.

“This could have all been avoided if I had been with you.”

You swallowed. “Yes. It had been reckless to go alone. And you, specifically, I should not have kept out of the investigation, even if it would have been difficult to approach you about it after, well…after. It is no excuse.”

He neither agreed nor countered, stalking over to the fire to stoke it halfheartedly.

“Indeed, sir…,” you ventured, fiddling with the blanket, “I am surprised by the lengths to which you would go to care for me after all I have put you through, emotionally and professionally.”

“I am not,” he said, though he spoke more to the fireplace than to you. “I ought to be, surely. Surprise or confusion or censure—any of those would be natural in response to such illogical choices on my part. But no, what is natural to me in this instant—as natural as breathing, as blinking—is to want you to be safe and healthy, and more than that, to ensure that I see to it that you are safe and healthy.”

He still didn’t face you, but you couldn’t begrudge him his having his back to you, as that was the only way you could muster the courage to say—

“You are not angry, then, sir?”

His shoulders went rigid, then dropped. “After we last…parted ways, I realised you had known all along a potential motive for Sulyard’s death and never shared it. Of course, I was angry—furious, really.”

Your bottom lip wobbled. “Oh.”

“But then—” Slowly, he turned around and walked towards the bed. “Then, I realised you had not been actively undermining the case, not until that day. Which meant you had not known all along a potential motive, which meant it had not even occurred to you that the victim’s abusiveness would be a motive, which meant…”

Close enough to touch, now, Sherlock’s clouded gaze was as clear to you as his deductions were to him.

He sat down gingerly beside you. Which meant you hadn’t even thought your pain was that important.

You let out a shaky breath. Which meant you hadn’t even thought anyone would’ve cared enough to do something about it.

He cupped your cheek and caressed it with the pad of his thumb. Which meant you hadn’t even thought—

“I am sorry,” you choked out.

“My lady…”

“I am sorry I did not tell you about Edmund. Even if it were not the motive, it was pertinent to the case and I— I—”

“Do not be,” he said, his voice firm and grave even as he brushed aside your tears with utmost tenderness. “Do not be. You were right, darling. This is your life. Nobody—not even the closest companion, or the cleverest—is entitled to that.”

You leaned forward, dipping your head down. “You were right, too. Behind society’s and others’ expectations, I have hidden what is difficult to show—to share.” Mrs Rogers’s face flashed in your mind, and then Eudoria’s. “But I…I know not how to stop. I know not how to be the girl you knew, who could be free with her heart and let you in. Not anymore, I fear.”

Sherlock shook his head. “You need not. Indeed, in the past few days, I have realised that despite how I have changed and how you have changed—or due to it—you have not shut me out. I may have been wrong for forcing my way into your private information, but I stand by my belief that I know you. I do know things about you that matter; I was only mistaken in what, precisely, that means.”

Your own voice echoed in your head: You know naught what matters! Shame suffused your cheeks to recall the impetuous harshness with which you’d treated your oldest friend, but still… You could no longer blame him for not knowing you beyond his deductions—it was you who struggled with pushing him away, after all—but the fact remained that he didn’t know you beyond his deductions…right?

Using his thumb now to trace your jaw, he said, “To know you completely does not mean seeing what no one else can see. What you have endured is not who you are. To know you completely means seeing what no one else cares to see.

“I see your sweeping compassion in how you care for Pashbroke, Mrs Rogers, Enola, even Miss Algar. I see your quiet intelligence in how you manipulated your kidnapper so that you could escape, just as you controlled the conversation with Lady Brindon and Dr Crawford.

“I know your character, your values, your scent.”

You stopped breathing, his other hand clasping over yours as they trembled in your lap.

“I can envision how your hips and arms move when you walk, as clearly as I can envision how you would react in any given situation, as clearly as—”

“Sherlock.”

“As clearly as I can envision how at home the taste of you makes me feel.” His lips brushed against yours, tantalising your every sense, your very blood.

The contact was feather-light, a whisper of a kiss, yet it knocked your world completely off its axis. You were left spinning, dizzy, as he eased away.

“You are still the girl I knew,” he breathed into your space. “To know you completely is not a matter of deduction, but of devotion.”

Both of his hands moved to frame your face, leaving yours to tremble all the more freely now. As he drew you closer, your thoughts scrambled for justification. Surely now, surely if, surely with—?

But no. Now that you had gotten the hitman involved, there was only one way to end this without any more bloodshed: to close the case.

Clenching one hand into a fist in your lap, you lifted the other to hold Sherlock back. “We should not… I cannot…”

The hurt in his eyes nearly did you in.

“There are aspects of this case that you do not—cannot—understand,” you whispered. “Sherlock…I still plan to turn myself in.”

For some reason, that seemed to assuage some of his pain. “I see.” He paused before clapping his hands together. “Well then, I am in the mood for a walk.”

You gaped. “A w— What?”

“A walk,” he said, rather cheerily for a gentleman whose advances had just been rebuffed yet again, as he climbed to his feet. “Not far, of course, but you mentioned some weeks ago that light exercise is better for your knee than sedentariness.”

He held out his arm, and through your bemusement, you managed to grab onto it and be pulled up. “I did mention that,” you said, dazed. What was going on?

Slowly but steadily, Sherlock led you to the armoire for a robe, out of the bedroom, across the hallway, into the living room—

You froze. “Is that…?” You strained your ears to confirm that the banging and puttering-about noises were coming from this flat’s kitchen. “Is somebody else here, Sherlock?”

Before the detective could answer, an exclamation came from whoever had evidently heard you speak. Then, there were rushing footsteps, and in ran Viscount of Pashbroke, The Right Honourable William Voss.

Sorry for the extended wait with this one, but hey, it’s the longest part so far! Which I did not expect at all from my outline lol. THIS chapter beat the tearoom and the art gallery and the kidnapping scenes? Okay. xD Thank you for reading. Sickfic stuff is not my forté, so feedback is always welcome!

Taglist [comment below if you’d like to be added!]: @theyaremorethanjustfictional @wonderlandfandomkingdom

#sherlock holmes x reader #sherlock holmes x you #henry cavill sherlock x reader #protective sherlock holmes #x reader sickfic #henry cavill fanfiction #enola holmes #a galling yoke #the dimensions of fandom

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hayleythesugarbowl · 5 months

Note

hey I don’t know if you’re still writing for Thomas barrow but if you are can you write one where the female reader is the one who finds Thomas kissing Jimmy instead of Alfred? And maybe the reader and Thomas are kind of enemies before that? But she covers for him/helps him anyways? Thank you so much I love your Thomas barrow series 💌

Even || Thomas Barrow & female!reader

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ masterlist • thomas barrow masterlist ⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚

summary: when you, a ladies maid who thomas has never got along with in the past, catch thomas making a move on jimmy you’re forced to decide wether or not to help him out

word count: 3.4k

warning: mild cursing, homophobia because it’s jimmy, speaking of which also jimmy slander if you squint

a/n: ok I’m sorry it took me so long to get to this!! I actually had an idea similar to this so thank you so much for requesting this love <3💌🍒💋

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~°~❦~°~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Miss (Y/l/n)?”

You looked up from your stitching to see a man staring down at you.

Thomas Barrow.

His eyebrows were raised expectantly and you fought the urge to roll your eyes as he waited for you to acknowledge him.

“To what do I owe this pleasure?” You prompted.

“Mrs. Hughes is looking for you. Something about one of Her Ladyship’s evening gowns.”

You smiled your sweetest smile up at the footman-turned-valet.

“Well, I appreciate you passing along the message,” you said as you continued to hem the skirt you were working on.

Still, Thomas didn’t leave. “You’d best get going, don’t you think? Mrs. Hughes sounded pretty urgent and I wouldn’t want you to get involved in any unfortunate circumstance.”

“No you wouldn’t,” you muttered under your breath sarcastically as you got up and walked down the hall.

You and Thomas didn’t exactly get on, to put it mildly. Honestly you’d be surprised if Mrs. Hughes even needed you and it wasn’t all just a ploy by Thomas to waste your time. It wouldn’t be the first time, you thought sardonically.

From the moment you arrived at the Abbey, Thomas had began his life’s mission of forever tormenting you and making your work at Downton just a little bit harder. You had tried to be friendly to him at first, but to no avail for he seemed determined to let you know that you didn’t belong here.

Not that he was particularly amiable with any of the downstairs staff, but he seemed to especially have it out for you.

Most likely because you were the only one who challenged. He wasn’t the only one who could come up with sabotaging schemes.

And he did have so many bloody schemes.

Like the time right after you’d been hired when he’d convinced you that even though you weren’t a part of the kitchen staff, you needed to pick up some groceries for Mrs. Patmore. He sent you into town and you’d been lost for hours searching before you’d ran into Anna—bless her heart—who told you that the grocer was on the other side of town and the delivery wasn’t even supposed to be ready for another week.

You’d gotten him back (with some help from Mrs. O’Brien, who’d been feeling particularly miffed at Thomas that day and was willing to return the favor in any way she could) by shrinking His Lordship’s trousers.

The furious yet shocked look on his face—like he’d finally found a worthy competitor—still brought a smile to your face on particularly dark days.

Needless to say, your relationship had been filled with nothing but stiff quips, scathing remarks, and the occasional act of sabotage since then.

You reached your destination and peered into Mrs. Hughes office.

“Mr. Barrow said you needed me?”

“And Mr. Barrow would be right,” Mrs. Hughes agreed, turning to you and smiling wryly. “I can’t make heads or tails of this gown.”

You picked up the mess of fabric she had gestured to and set to work mending. The skirt you were working on could wait.

As you turned the dress over, you couldn’t help but smirk to yourself. Thomas? Truthful for once?

He must have some ulterior motive.

You’d be surprised if the skirt was still there when you got back—or if it didn’t have significantly more holes than when you’d left it.

₊˚ ✧ ‿︵‿୨୧‿︵‿ ✧ ₊˚

You walked into the servants hall the next morning, tired as hell from working on Her Ladyship’s gown all night.

You practically fell into your chair as Daisy came around and poured your tea. You thanked her absentmindedly as you began to nibble on some toast.

“Don’t you look nice, Miss (Y/l/n),” Thomas smiled at you but it was all but a compliment.

O’Brien smirked beside him and you narrowed your eyes at both of them.

“Nice of you to take notice,” you shot back.

“Is it a crime, to butter up one’s coworker?” He kept eye contact with you as he stirred his tea slowly.

“Depends who’s doing the buttering,” you leveled your gaze at his dark eyes.

“Speaking of butter, can we get any around here?”

A blond man sauntered into the room, taking a seat at the servants table and looking around at the present company. You felt Thomas shift across from you.

“I’m serious, just because we’re working class don’t mean we have to eat turnips and bread our whole lives.”

“I beg your pardon, I didn’t know the King of England was visiting,” O’Brien mumbled.

“Only saying,” Jimmy said. “I’d like to be able to eat what I like, when I like without being an earl or a duke.”

Jimmy Kent. The newest addition to the well-oiled machine that was Downton Abbey. And how could you forget? What, with all of the maids talking of nothing else since he arrived. You agreed that he was pleasant looking, but he was too much of a flirt for your liking.

He leaned back in his chair, as if daring anyone to contradict him.

“And what would you like to eat, Jimmy?” Thomas glanced over at him.

“All of England, if it pleases me.”

“I’ll put in a good word with Mrs. Patmore,” Thomas smiled at Jimmy and you were baffled at how it actually looked genuine.

In fact, Thomas had seemed to take a liking to Jimmy from the moment he arrived. He was about the only person who Thomas treated like an equal.

He must be using him, you thought. Trying to lure him into the trap of friendship before getting him fired or something of the like.

“You most certainly will not,” Mrs. Patmore answered, walking into the room. “The moment I start taking requests from you lot—”

“Is a moment that will not happen anytime soon,” Mr. Carson cut in from the head of the table glancing authoritatively at all of the servants finishing their breakfast.

“Why would Mrs. Patmore take your word anyway,” you looked to Thomas, “When anything you recommend is likely to be made of cement?”

“Feisty this morning, are we? Bold for the girl who, as I recall, left the Duchess of Frescershire quite unhappy with a dress that very likely felt like cement.” Thomas spat.

Your hand made a fist and you yearned to climb across the table and use it, but you checked yourself and only glared at the man across from you.

Thomas raised an eyebrow at you, standing up and glancing in Jimmy’s direction before turning around and heading down the hall.

“I think I’ll be going also,” O’Brien left her seat quickly, giving a small smile, her eyes following Thomas’s as she walked to catch up to him.

Likely plotting, you thought. Well, let them to it. The last thing you needed to be doing right now in your tired state was wasting energy thinking about Thomas Barrow.

You finished your tea, exiting the room and preparing for your days work. The girls were already dressed, so you could devote your time to downstairs work for the time being.

You passed Thomas and O’Brien in the hall, both of which quickly stiffened their posture and looked at you as you walked past, ceasing their very obvious confidence. But not before you heard the words certain, return, and Jimmy.

You didn’t even want to bother figuring out what they were gossiping about. Nothing good, you knew that. Best to stay out of it while you still could.

Thomas had nearly gotten you sacked a number of times and it wasn’t going to happen again.

₊˚ ✧ ‿︵‿୨୧‿︵‿ ✧ ₊˚

Sleep. It was all you could think about as you walked down the hall, having finished your days work and being ever so ready to hit the hay.

Everyone else had already gone to bed and you were the last to leave the servants hall. You were almost to your room, thinking of how to avoid waking the maid that you shared your room with, when someone called your name.

“Miss (Y/l/n)?”

“Mrs. Hughes.” You greeted her.

“Do you have minute?”

“I suppose I do.”

“I don’t like to ask you to do this, but Lady Mary has asked to have her purple evening gown from last season ready to wear tomorrow. I would ask one of the footmen as it’s through the men’s corridors, but you’re the only servant still awake—”

You internally cursed Lady Mary. Out loud you weakly said, “Straight away, Mrs. Hughes.”

You supposed it worked out for the best. As it turned out, Thomas had done something with the skirt you’d been mending—which just so happened to be needed by Lady Edith the next day—and it might give you a chance to see if he’d hidden it anywhere where he thought you would never go.

You didn’t say any of this to Mrs. Hughes though, you just smiled and walked in the opposite direction.

The male servant’s corridor was dark and you had trouble finding your way around without a lantern. You could make out the outlines of doorways, the doors all shut tight for the nighttime.

Now which door was the storage room?

You found it fairly quickly considering the circumstance and sorted through until you found the aforementioned dress.

Now, to reward yourself, you thought, a little snooping was in order.

You walked farther down the hall to what you assumed were the bedrooms.

Again, the doors were all closed and most likely locked. You cursed under your breath. You were staring to head back before your eye caught on a glint of light spilling into the hallway from the far end of the corridor.

You headed farther into the hall and you saw it. A door, propped open just enough to see that there was someone standing in it, their form outlined by the moonlight.

You crept closer, peering through the gap.

Thomas. His back was to you, but you could see him slowly inching closer to a bed on the far wall.

Except, he wasn’t alone. You could barely make out someone already sleeping. The room appeared to only have one bed, not a shared room, you thought.

Which meant—

You heard a cry. A rustle of blankets. You dared to open the door just a little bit more.

“What in the bloody hell—”

You looked up in time to see Thomas leaning over Jimmy, a look of pure horror and shock on the latter’s face. Thomas backed up quickly, while Jimmy stood in outrage.

“Did you just try to—” Jimmy’s surprise quickly turned to anger as he took a step towards the other man.

Your mind could hardly work fast enough, watching all of this unfold. You couldn’t believe what you were seeing. If this was what you thought it was—

You weren’t paying attention and you leaned forwards, your foot stepping on a creaky board—curse this old house—and alerting both men. Thomas turned around and his eyes landed on yours.

“Miss (Y/l/n), this isn’t what it looks like, alright? If you think I invited him, than you’re mistaken.” Jimmy looked flustered and you looked from him to Thomas.

Thomas opened his mouth, as if to say something. He looked pained and miserable.

You almost forgot yourself and felt bad for him.

He tried to say something again but instead just looked from you to Jimmy and then rushed out of the room.

You couldn’t do anything but follow him.

“Mr. Barrow—”

Abruptly, he stopped and turned around to face you. His posture was straight and he spoke as is if he were discussing the weather.

“You got what you wanted, didn’t you, Miss (Y/l/n)?”

You didn’t respond.

“I’m sure you’d just love to see me sacked, wouldn’t you?” Thomas bit out.

“Now—”

“Go on, tell Mr. Carson. Tell His Lordship. Tell the bloody King. Finally got an excuse to see the end of me. I reckon no one’ll even bat an eye, neither.”

Even in the dark, could see the pain and loneliness and fear in his expression that he was trying to hide with his harsh words.

You’d imagined the moment Thomas Barrow would get thrown out on his ear many a time. You’d always pictured the way you’d smirk as he left Downton for the last time. How you’d shout ‘good riddance’ for all to hear. You’d conjured up a million different circumstances just like this.

Except never like this. Not with Thomas weak, practically giving up. You couldn’t say it didn’t sound appealing, getting rid of him. You had the advantage. But suddenly, you didn’t want it.

“You must think more of me than that, Mr. Barrow.”

“I don’t know what you mean,” his voice was rough.

“I mean, I better get back with this dress ‘fore they send a search party.”

You started to walk past Thomas, but he stepped in front of you.

“So, that’s it? No victory speech?” Thomas glared down at you.

You had the urge to slap the look off his face but you took a deep breath.

“Victory over what? I didn’t see nothing to make me victorious. And by that, I mean I didn’t see nothing at all.”

You winked at him once leaving him standing there to process that as you hurried back in the direction you came.

You nearly laughed at the turn of events as you found your way back in the dark. You, covering for Thomas Barrow.

Never in your wildest dreams…

₊˚ ✧ ‿︵‿୨୧‿︵‿ ✧ ₊˚

The next day, Thomas could hardly look at you. Whenever he rounded a corner and found you on the other side, he stopped, looked like he wanted to speak to you, and then hurried on past.

You didn’t exactly expect him to bake you a cake or nothing, but you supposed a decent thank you was in order for saving his arse.

However, for all he wasn’t looking at you, he was looking at Jimmy. Except this time, instead of the look of friendship (or more, you supposed) it was now a look of apprehension.

Most likely afraid Jimmy would take his story himself to Mr. Carson.

And you didn’t see any reason why he wouldn’t. From the look of him, you thought as you sat across from him at the servants table, he looked ready to pounce.

Before you could stop yourself and advise against it, you walked up to him. “Jimmy, may I have a word?”

You couldn’t have your one act of kindness ruined by any loose ends.

As Jimmy followed you into the boot room you felt O’Brien’s eyes on you and promptly ignored them.

You got straight to the point, “I wish to talk about what happened last night.”

“I bloody don’t,” Jimmy responded, his eyes flashing, “it was awful, that’s what it was.”

“It was a misunderstanding,” you supplied.

The footman scoffed, “No, I think I understood perfectly alright.”

“What I mean to say is, I hope you don’t plan to make this misunderstanding something bigger than it is.”

“I have to tell the police, that’s what I have to do! I’ve been talking to Miss O’Brien and—”

“And I hope you see how ill advised that would be,” you finished.

He raised an eyebrow at you.

“You wouldn’t want to seem like you were mixed up in…something of that nature.”

“I don’t understand,” Jimmy said.

“You wouldn’t want anyone to think you’re in on anything disgusting, would you?”

Personally, you didn’t find anything particularly disgusting about the whole situation. You figured Thomas could kiss whoever he liked, for all you cared as long as it wasn’t you. But you knew that wasn’t going to work with Jimmy.

“Well no but—”

“Because if you go around spinning your story, someone down the line is bound to think you weren’t all against it, if you know what I’m getting at,” you said.

A look of horror passed Jimmy’s face.

“And besides I don’t think you’re the kind of person who would want to get a man fired, are you?”

He paused. “Why do you care if I get Mr. Barrow sacked? You don’t seem to get on with him anyways.”

“Oh, I don’t care what happens to Mr. Barrow,” you said with a smirk, “I just wouldn’t want this unfortunate incident to cause more of a quagmire for anyone than is necessary.”

Jimmy nodded, “Well, I wouldn’t want anyone’s reputation ruined for it I suppose.”

You smiled.

“And by that, I can’t pretend I don’t mean my own,” he added.

“Who knows,” you said, “you and Barrow might end up being friends eventually.”

“Friends?” He sounded incredulous, “I doubt it.”

“I think there’s more to Thomas than meets the eye,” you said cryptically. “Either way, think about what I said.”

He looked at you a moment, pondering, before nodding at you and leaving the room quickly.

You breathed out a sigh.

“Well, that was quite the speech, Miss (Y/l/n).”

You whirled around, finding Thomas standing in the doorway. How much of your conversation with Jimmy had he heard?

“And what are you doing here, Mr. Barrow? I can’t say following Jimmy around like a lost puppy is well advised anymore.”

Thomas clenched his teeth, looking at you. “It is a public place, isn’t it?”

You were both silent for a moment, as you calculated what to say next. Mr. Barrow beat you to it.

“I wanted to say thank you,” it looked like it cause him pain to say the words to you, his sworn nemesis.

“I would have been sacked if it weren’t for you, though I still can’t quite understand why you did it, and I thank you for it,” he finished. “I’m not sure I deserve it, but I’m grateful.”

“Well, I can’t say it’s not entirely out of self interest,” you said, straightening, “seeing as I can’t torture you if you’re gone, I saw no reason to be the one to end that.”

Thomas almost smiled. “That was quite an act of deception you pulled with Jimmy.”

“Would you believe me if I said I learned from the best?”

“Now, I’m not sure I deserve your compliments as well as your pity,” Thomas said.

“Really, there’s no need to think yourself so special. I was speaking of Miss O’Brien.”

Thomas let out a laugh and you couldn’t help but smile at him. He wasn’t all bad, you could see that. And you couldn’t imagine Downton without him now that you had been faced with the possibility.

“Well, I hope you don’t expect us to be friendly now,” you warned, to break the silence and whatever the spell that had fallen over you two was that made you act most unlike yourselves. Sharing a companionable silence? Never!

“I wouldn’t wish being your friend on my worst enemy, let alone take part in it myself.” Thomas brushed invisible lint off of his jacket.

You rolled your eyes at him, but it didn’t hold any real conviction.

“Well, I suppose I ought to get on with my work,” you said, moving past Thomas. “Wouldn’t want to get behind on your account.”

“You are a queer woman, aren’t you?” Thomas said not unkindly.

“I could say the same to you.”

You turned around, your tone more serious than it had just been

“And for what it’s worth, I don’t think you’re disgusting, Mr. Barrow.”

Thomas was silent.

“Horrid and self-serving and haughty and a pain in my rear end. But not disgusting.”

“I could say the same to you,” Thomas echoed your earlier statement.

You left without another word.

You didn’t think that you and Thomas would be companions, exactly. But you left that room with a greater fondness for him that you’d ever felt. You understood him more, if nothing else.

And you thought you could guess he felt a little of the same way too.

₊˚ ✧ ‿︵‿୨୧‿︵‿ ✧ ₊˚

The next morning, as you began your day by checking the work you’d left out the night before, you found a new lump of fabric atop the pile.

You picked it up and let the cloth fall through your fingers.

It was the skirt you were working at from earlier this week. Barely recognizable, however. It was mended, certainly. The holes were fixed and the hem had been replaced. It looked brand new, better than anything you could have done.

Thomas.

It must have been him. You found yourself smiling to yourself.

“Well then, I suppose we’re even, Mr. Barrow, aren't we?” you mumbled.

Except for the fact that him taking it in the first place had delayed you getting the skirt to Lady Edith by a day.

But you’d get him back somehow, you thought, smiling.

You always did.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~°~❦~°~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

ˋ°•*⁀➷ hope you enjoyed this babes!! check out my thomas barrow series if you want more of him and have a great day 💐🍓🩰

#thomas barrow #thomas barrow x friend!reader #thomas barrow x reader #downton abbey #jimmy kent #fanfiction #fanfic #reader insert #x reader

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onevolon · 6 months

Text

my love for you is infinite - part16

Santiago Garcia x afab!reader(Darcy)

note: pride and prejudice (2005) but with triple frontier boys because why not lol

word count: 1496

warnings: the end!

you can also read it on ao3.

part15 - masterlist

Francisco and Santiago lie in bed.

“Can you die of happiness? You know, he was totally ignorant of my being in town last spring!”

“How did he account for it?”

“He thought me indifferent!”

“Unfathomable.”

“No doubt poisoned by his pernicious sister.”

“Bravo! That is the most unforgiving speech you've ever made.”

“Oh Santiago, if I could but see you so happy. If there were such another person for you!”

There is a noise outside.

“Perhaps Mr. Collins has a cousin. It's no less than I deserve. What is that?”

More noise, it sounds like a carriage, then aloud banging on the door downstairs. The boys look at each other.

***

Mr. Bennet, Mrs. Bennet and the girls lit by only candles have gathered. The door bangs again.

“Maybe he's changed his mind.” says Tom.

Timidly, Mr. Bennet opens the door revealing a baleful looking Lady Catherine de Bourgh. Everyone gasps.

“Lady Catherine!”

Lady Catherine does not acknowledge, but comes in uninvited, inspecting the assembled company of aghast Bennets. She waves a dismissive hand towards the boys.

“The rest of your offspring, I presume.”

“All but one, the youngest has been lately married your ladyship. And my eldest was only proposed to yesterday afternoon.” Says Mrs. Bennet.

“You have a very small garden, madam.”

“Could I offer you a cup of tea perhaps, your Ladyship?”

“Absolutely not! I must speak to Mr. Santiago alone, as a matter of urgency.”

The Bennets all look at each other, bewildered by this strange turn of events.

***

Santiago leads the way into the drawing room - holding a candle. Lady Catherine walks in. The door closes behind them. Santiago puts the candle down on a small table. They sit, facing each other.

“You can be at no loss, Mr. Santiago, to understand why I am here.”

Lit only by the oil lamp Lady Catherine resembles a flickering ghoul.

“Indeed, you are mistaken. I cannot account for this honor at all.”

“Mr. Santiago, I warn you, I am not to be trifled with. A report of a most alarming nature has reached me that you intend to be united with my niece, Miss Darcy.”

Santiago stares at her, amazed.

“I know this to be a scandalous falsehood, though not wishing to injure her by supposing it possible, I instantly set off to make my sentiments known.”

Santiago's spirit rises within him.

“If you believed it impossible, I wonder you took the trouble of coming so far.”

“To hear it contradicted, Mr. Santiago.”

“You coming here will be rather a confirmation, surely, if indeed such a report exists. “

“If? Do you then pretend to be ignorant of it? Has it not been industriously circulated by yourself?”

“I have never heard of it.”

“And can you declare there is no foundation for it?”

“I do not pretend to possess equal frankness with your ladyship. You may ask the questions, which I may not choose to answer.”

“This is not to be borne. Has my niece made you an offer of marriage?”

“Your Ladyship declared it to be impossible.”

“Let me be understood. Miss Darcy is engaged to my daughter. Now what have you to say?”

“Only this - if that is the case you can have no reason to suppose she will make an offer to me.”

“Oh, obstinate boy! This union has been planned since their infancy. Do you think it can be prevented by a young man of inferior birth and whose own brother's elopement resulted in the scandalously patched-up marriage, only achieved at the expense of your uncle? Heaven and earth, are the shades of Pemberley to be thus polluted? Now tell me once and for all, are you engaged to him?

“I am not.”

“And will you promise never to enter into such an engagement?”

“I will not. And I certainly never shall. You have insulted me in every possible way and can now have nothing further to say. I must ask you to leave immediately. Good night.”

Santiago throws open the door, revealing the family outside.

“I have never been thus treated in my entire life.”

Lady Catherine storms past the family and out into the night. Santiago is standing shaking with the excitement of having stood so firmly up for himself.

“Santiago, what on earth is going on?” Mr. Bennet asks.

“Just a small misunderstanding.”

He walks past them to bed.

“Santiago!” Mrs. Bennet yells after him.

“For once in your life. Just leave me alone.”

Everyone looks shocked by Santiago's reaction.

***

Francisco is fast asleep, Santiago more awake than he's ever been. He quietly climbs out of bed and creeps out of the room.

***

Santiago creeps out into the garden and wanders through the early morning mist, as the sun starts to rise.

He has lost track of himself and is walking beyond the Longbourn grounds. The mist is starting to evaporate and through the departing strands she sees a figure emerging. He stops, suddenly conscious of herself and frightened. Then he realizes it is Darcy - red-eyed, slightly wild looking - but still Darcy.

They both stop and stare at each other for a second.

“I couldn't sleep”

“Nor I. My aunt?”

She stops, looking wretched.

“Yes. She was here.”

“How can I ever make amends for such behavior?”

“After what you have done for Ben and for all I know, for Francisco also, it is I who should be making amends.”

Darcy looks at him for one deep moment.

“You must know - surely you must know, that it was all for you.”

Santiago is still as stone.

“You are too generous to trifle with me. I believe you spoke with my aunt last night, and it has taught me to hope as I had scarcely allowed myself before. If your feelings are still what they were last April, tell me so at once. My affections and wishes are unchanged, but one word from you will silence me forever.”

Santiago is silent.

“If, however, your feelings have changed...”

Darcy looks at him. Something in Santiagos eyes gives her confidence.

“I could, I would have to tell you, you have bewitched me body and soul and I love and love and love you. And never wish to be parted from you from this day on.”

Santiago looks at her very serious, very simple.

“Well, then.”

Darcy takes a step towards him, one hand stretched out. Santiago takes hold of her fingers.

“You’re cold.”

He kisses her thumb. He sweeps her into his arms on a sound that's half a laugh, half a sob.

***

The place is in an uproar. Francisco, Tom, William, Mr. and Mrs. Bennet are all gathered, fretting terribly about Santiago's whereabouts. Through a window we see Santiago lead Darcy along the duck board plank across the moat. Santiago enters the house, everybody starts.

“Santiago, where have you been? We thought something had happened to you.”

Darcy follows Santiago in.

“Miss Darcy! What on earth are you doing here?”

Santiago takes Miss Darcy's hand.

“Miss Darcy has come to speak with Papa.”

Everyone is stunned.

***

Santiago paces outside the door of the library, waiting. After a while Darcy emerges, she gives Santiago the briefest of smiles and leaves the door open. Santiago walks in. His father is in a state of shock.

“Santiago, are you out of your senses? I thought you hated the woman.”

“No, Papa.”

“She is rich, to be sure, and you will have more fine carriages than Francisco. But will that make you happy?”

“Have you no other objection than your belief in my indifference?”

“None at all. We all know him to be a proud, unpleasant sort of fellow, but this would be nothing if you really liked her.”

“I do like her! I love her! She's not proud. I was wrong, entirely wrong about her. You don't know her, Papa... if I told you what she's really like. What she's done.

“What has she done?”

***

Santiago's hair caught up in the collar of the coat as he turns to Darcy with a heart-stopping smile. She’s at his side, in night-shirt and breeches, both of them looking as though they've just flung themselves out of bed... which is precisely the case.

“And how are you today, my dear?”

“Very well, only I wish you would not call me my dear.”

“Why?”

“It’s what my father always calls my mother when he's cross about something.”

“What endearments am I allowed?”

“Let me think. Santiago for every day. My Pearl for Sundays and God Divine - but only on special occasions.”

“And what shall I call you when I'm cross? Mr. Darcy?

“Oh no. You can only call me Mr. Darcy when you are entirely and perfectly and incandescently happy.”

She takes his face between her hands.

“And how are you this morning Mr. Darcy?”

Santiago smiles as she kisses every inch of his face and in between each kiss, murmurs "Mr. Darcy".

#santiago garcia #triple frontier #ben miller #frankie morales #onevolon fic #santiago garcia x reader #tom davis #oscar isaac characters #oscar isaac fic #oscar isaac fanfiction #oscar isaac hernandez estrada #oscar isaac

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ofoceansandtombsanew · 2 years

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a/n: here we are, finally at chapter 1 of irnbtv thank you so much to everyone who hyped up the story and asked to be part of the taglist! i’m not entirely pleased with this first chapter since it’s mostly exposition dumping but the real fun begins in chapter two, so look forward to it!

TAGLIST (ask to be added or removed): @sunsethw4, @yvechu , @apple-ai , @meowlumi , @mei-simp, @nxmiyako , @nejibot , @url0calshifter , @crazyrichdaughter , @galaxytids , @pinksandss , @junephantom21 , @marshmallow12435, @aixaingela

chapter i; "daughter” of the duke masterlist | previous chapter | next chapter (tba)

It’s too early in the morning for this. Your lips curled into a deep frown.

It was far too early for this.

It was far too early for your untimely death to be rationalized. It was far too early for you to dream of the original owner of the body you had claimed. Despite those surprises, you were able to take them in stride. But this is a damn dealbreaker.

You could tolerate many things, roll with many a punch. Someone walking into your room unannounced, however, was something not even you could tolerate.

Which was how you found yourself, nightgown at all, staring down a maid whose previous look of contempt had shifted into one of anxiety. “I’m sorry, perhaps it’s because it��s because I’ve only just awoken but I could have sworn that door was closed. Or was it actually open this whole time?”

“No...” the woman answered after a moment. She must have been bringing you your breakfast, judging from the trolley full of covered trays the maid brought with her. “It was closed.”

“I see.” Your hummed. “Then that would mean you just barged into my room without knocking and being given permission. Correct?”

“I simply needed to-”

You didn’t give the maid a chance to finish that sentence. “I don’t care for your lackluster excuses and justifications. Is that how you enter the duke’s room?”

The maid looked aghast as your question. “N-never, my ladyship!”

“And can you tell me why that is?”

“I... I don’t understand your question, Lady [First].”

Your frown deepened, your displeasure easily visible. “I’m asking why you would never dare to enter the duke’s quarters without permission?”

“Because... because I am his servant.”

“Yes, a servant.” You all but growled. “And yet that is how you enter mine? The duke’s daughter? Your lady? Are you daft or do you truly believe that you’re my better? Because those are the only implications I can gather from your actions.”

“That wasn’t my inten- I- I apologize-”

“Get out. Walk back to that kitchen and make your way back to my room and treat me like you have some sense.” With a mousy ‘yes, ma’am’, the maid grabbed the trolley and stepped away frantically. Whether it was out of fear of how you’d react or surprise that you ‘finally’ lashed out at the treatment, you weren’t sure. Perhaps it was a mixture of both. “Oh, and Miss Maid?”

“Y-yes?” She looked over her shoulder.

“My breakfast better be hot.” From how the servant flinched as she closed your door, you were sure your glare was cold enough. I fucking swear.

You pinched the bridge of your nose and sighed. You weren’t planning to dive headfirst into the role of Villainess. But assholes opening my door without knocking and asking first was already a pet peeve of mine when I was in my world, like hell am I dealing with that here. Yet in your memories, [First] did nothing but tolerate it. If the Duke didn’t care about his fake daughter, why would the staff? Maybe she thought that even if she complained, he’d do nothing about it. Maybe she was right. But that isn’t flying anymore now that I’m here.

With that dealt with, you sat your vanity drawn to the person mimicking your every move. You’d always wondered how the protagonists of these sorts of tropes never reacted more emotionally in this scenario. They die and then wake up as the Villainess, and their untimely demise is never at the forefront of their minds? Now that you were in this position yourself, you found yourself having a similar reaction.

Why is it always the Villainess? You wondered for a moment, fingers brushing lightly over your cheeks. It’s never as the Heroine. And it’s never in a normal rom-com manhwa either. You find yourself chuckling lightly, trying to imagine that sort of series. If I woke up as Bareum in Romance 101, it would be game over. You brush away those thoughts as quickly as they’d come with a sigh. Beneficial as that might have been, that wasn’t the series you transmigrated into nor were you the type of Villainess who was merely publicly humiliated.

No, you were the daughter of the Duke [Surname], [First], a primary antagonist in the story of Seraphim.

The story was a fairly simple one, magic, multiple love interests, and of course the Villainess to tie everything around in a neat little bow. It followed the sister in a pair of twins, Lumine, after discovering her affinity for light magic. Her elder twin brother, Aether, had always been frail and sickly since birth so when some baron offered to adopt her, she took the opportunity since he promised her brother would be taken care of as well. That led to her being introduced to high society, who were all interested in her since light magic was one of the rarest types in the world.

In the world of Seraphim, elemental magic was the standard with each of the main love interests wielding one of the seven.

Kamisato Ayato the Crown Prince and [First]’s fiancé used Hydro. He’d never been your favorite love interest, finding his teasing and scheming personality more annoying and grating than charming. With your newly acquired memories, he only seemed even worse in your eyes. Still he was the one Lumine chose in the end, go figure.

Then there was Ajax Snezhevich, another Hydro wielder, who was revealed to be an antagonist. He’d been working undercover for the true big bad of the series, the Tsaritsa who wanted to take Lumine’s light magic for herself. He fell in love with her genuinely in the end, but his sense of duty won over romance and he was ultimately exiled by the end of the story.

Ain’t that some bullshit, Childe was just as much of an antagonist as [First] and all that happens to him is him feeling bad and just going into exile? You groaned, thinking at the unfairness in terms of villain treatment. Why does [First] have to go mad with heartbreak and rage so she can attack Lumine and then get killed by Xiao, huh?

Kaedehara Kazuha, in contrast, had always been your favorite love interest. Lumine should have ran away with him honestly. He was poetic and kind but he could be quite sharp and witty when he wanted to be. His family were the knights of the Crown with his destiny being the leader of those knights. All he wanted was to run away and travel the world though, exiting the story not too long before the climax. He wielded Anemo.

Xiao was another who was of the Anemo element. A former child soldier forced into countless battle after battle before coming to Teyvat as a slave. The Duke brought him out of that, however, and Xiao’s loyalty was unshakeable... at least until he met Lumine. But considering he’ll kill me at the end of the story if I just go along with everything, he’s less cute.

Finally, there was Hu Zhongli who used Geo. A baron who was terrible with money and yet never seemed to run out of it. That was kind of it with him, there was never anything too deep with him. It was honestly sort of obvious Zhongli wouldn’t be chosen by Lumine in the end, still he was quite attractive.

And [First] has Dendro, right? You looked at your hands. There was nothing out of the ordinary about them, and yet you knew magic was now flowing in them. Poisonous plants like belladonna were a symbol of [First]’s since that’s what she mostly used it for once Lumine caught the attention of the prince. You recalled the wilted grass and flowers in your dream that flourished once more when the original [First]’s mood had brightened.

I wish we could have seen what her magic was like when it wasn’t fueled by anger and pain. You looked at your reflection once more. At least my death isn’t imminent. Not when you weren’t the unhealthily infatuated [First] from before. If you continued on now, you were sure that [First]’s story would play out quite differently in that regard.

Ayato would still fall in love with Lumine and annul his engagement with you publicly. You’d have no reason to attack Lumine, nor would you want to. You’d just live the rest of your days as the disgraced Mad Dog of the [Surname] duchy, not that people didn’t already refer to you as that already.

Your fingers drummed lightly atop the table as you recalled the events. As if I’m staying for that. Leaving was the only option for you. But there really wasn’t anything that was-

Knock. Knock.

“You may enter.” You announce with missing a beat. Your plans could wait until after breakfast. “Looks like you can learn, after all.” You couldn’t hold back the dig, not when irritation still lingered in you. “Let everyone know that’s how I want you entering my room from now on.

“Yes, Lady [First], I’ll make sure to let everyone know.” You eyed the trolley with interest as your breakfast was unveiled.

Steak? For breakfast? You held back your glee, you wouldn’t give the maid the satisfaction of your pleasure. “Next time, I want waffles.” You say instead, grabbing your knife and fork. “You can leave now. I wish to be alone while I eat.”

“My lady?”

You considered snapping more, but that was too much even for you. “What is it?” You query instead, keeping your tone curt.

“I wish to ask when you would like to get ready for the luncheon at the palace?”

“Luncheon?” You rose an eyebrow.

“Yes...” The maid looked as if she couldn’t believe you’d forget. “The one the Prince is hosting. You were ecstatic a few weeks ago when you received your invitation.” An obligatory invitation, you both seemed to be thinking.

You couldn’t hold back your expression of displeasure even if you wanted to. I need to know what point in the story I’m in. “Absolu-” you clamp your mouth shut. This luncheon is the best way to figure that out. If Lumine was there, it would be time to make your departure from the tale immediately even without a plan. Considering how little [First] is cared about here, I’m sure that’ll be easy. “The luncheon, of course! I suppose it slipped my mine in favor of other things.” You exclaimed smoothly. “I’ll call for you after breakfast, I’ll get ready then.”

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I Didn't Know You Were Keeping Count - Part IV: Lark

ao3

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While writing this chapter, I realized I'd need to split this chapter in two or we'd have a massive 11k giant on our hands. A lot of stuff happens over Part IV, and I didn't want to overwhelm anyone. Lark, continued will be up later this week!

Thank you, @ravenmind2001, for your feedback on this chapter!

Taglist:

@ravenmind2001 @incorrectskyrimquotes @uwuthrad @dark-brohood @owl-screeches @binaominagata @dakatmew @constantfyre @kurakumi @stormbeyondreality

Content Warnings: None, unless you count Alec's obsession with the Dragonborn.

#######

The dragon wasn’t a part of her travel plans.

Following the White River into Eastmarch, they were only what she guessed was halfway through the caldera when its shadow swept overhead, large and dark. Then came the wash of fire, charring everything in its path, including her.

Leara barely raised a ward and cast an ice cloak over herself when the fire rained over her. She could hear Bishop somewhere beyond the wall of flames, but he was the least of her concerns.

The onslaught ended, the dragon banking west on the wind toward the mountains. She released the spells, a little too warm in her silver plate for the cool weather, but none the worse for wear.

“He’ll be back in a moment,” she told Bishop as the ranger jogged over to join her, Karnwyr beside him.

“Great, I was itching for a fight!” he said, grin wolfish.

“That would be the burns after he roasts you for dinner.”

Bishop’s mouth opened for a comeback – then he stumbled forward with a cry.

The dragon was on the road, the stones shaking as he crawled toward them.

Leara pushed Bishop aside, her katana in hand. She stared down the dragon, crystal blue eyes meeting the fathomless dark ones of the other dovah.

“Fus Ro Dah!”

·•★•·

Windhelm was a stone fortress of grey and white. Under the buildup of ice and the wear of centuries, she supposed it wasn’t that different from Cloud Ruler Temple. Only, the Blades had a pride in their ancestral architecture that was felt from even when first arriving at the Akaviri fortress. There was an air of neglect about the city, permeating from the stones as deep as the permafrost. Leara squeezed her eyes shut.

Cloud Ruler Temple was in ruins, neglected, forgotten.

“You’re awfully quiet.”

Her eyes fluttered open, shoulders rigid. “Just thinking.”

“You weren’t quiet when you trumped that dragon.”

“I shattered the vertebrae in his neck. I would hardly call that ‘trumping’.”

The bridge was long, though it was nothing compared to the Imperial bridge leading to the city isle. Snow and ice crunched underfoot as they approached the city; Leara felt tension mount inside her the closer they got to the gates. “Have you been to Windhelm before?’ she asked, much to her own surprise.

Bishop laughed, void of amusement. “I’ve been everywhere in this frozen hell of a province, ladyship. Yeah, I’ve been to Windhelm a few times. Can’t stand it, either. The people here think it’s cold when they have their cozy little houses. Huh! I’ve endured much worse as a child and survived on my own with nothing more than branches to keep me warm.”

“You didn’t have to come,” she reminded him for what was probably the umpteenth time.

“And leave you exposed to the prying eyes and wandering hands of people like the Thalmor? Do you have a death wish?” he asked.

They entered through the city gates. “I suppose not,” she sighed. “Where’s the inn?”

“First time? Bishop waggled his eyebrows at her. Leara crossed her arms, expectantly. “Candlehearth Hall over that way?” he jabbed his thumb toward a two-story building across from the main gate’s thoroughfare. At first glance, Candlehearth Hall appeared larger than the Bannered Mare in Whiterun, its gabled roof blanketed in the remnants of an early morning snowfall that blended it into the stone grey of the skyline. “Not a bad selection of ale,” Bishop continued. “Better than any of the swill the Dark Elves serve in that rathole they gather at in the Grey Quarter.”

“I see,” Leara nodded, lips thinning. A Dunmeri cornerclub sounded better than another loud tavern where the patrons were either. Drunk, singing about her, or both. Knowing Bishop, though, he’d start something and get them both kicked out. Or worse: he’d be kicked out and she would have to hear some offensive comment about the Dunmer ‘making off with the local women’ or something.

Karnwyr bumped her hand, his nose cold.

“Come on, boy. We’ll find you a fire.”

Entering Candlehearth Hall was like going from the daytime into night with a single step. The bright frosty air of Windhelm’s streets gave way to a dark, smokey interior, glowing warm with candlelight. The tantalizing smell of roasting meat wafted through the air and Leara couldn’t help but giggle when Karnwyr scented it, his head perking up.

At the sound of the door, the woman behind the counter peered passed the customer at the bar. "This here's Candlehearth Hall. Great room's upstairs, an' there's a bed for rent on the ground floor,” she said as Leara stepped up to the counter. “Got some fresh-baked bread an' good cheese, if you're after a bite to eat.”

“That would be lovely, thank you,” Leara smiled, bracing her hands on the counter. Behind her, Bishop cleared his throat. “Enough for two, and some ale.”

“You’ll want to ask Susanna after the ale,” the proprietor said. “I’ll have your meals right out. Where is Nils?” she mumbled, slipping off down the hall.

“Don’t mind Elda,” the man at the counter said. “She’s always after the waitstaff here.”

“Good help is hard to come by,” Bishop said, eyeing the man darkly.

The man ignored him; instead, his attention seemed caught on the twin rings on Leara’s dominant ring and middle fingers. “I say, those are curious rings! I’ve never seen one with a band of fire in it before! How did you come by them?”

Her fingers curling inward, Leara glanced down at her rings. While one was a mithril band studded with starlit diamonds that both boosted her natural magic reserves and combatted her difficulty in regenerating magic on her own, the other was a jet-black band with a glowing vein of gold like fire running round the ring. Its only other feature was a trio of stars engraved on the interior side of the band. “Family heirlooms,” she replied.

“You wouldn’t happen to be interested in selling them, would you?” the grey-haired man asked.

“Ah, no, no thank you.” Then, to dissuade any further questions, she added, “They really are unremarkable. Just trinkets a mage in my family was toying with. I don’t even think they do anything.”

“Mages often hide secrets in their work,” the man chuckled.

“Hey, buddy, the lady said she’s not interested!” Bishop growled.

“Bishop . . .” Leara whispered, closing her eyes.

“I’m merely making conversation,” the man retorted. He turned back to Leara. “If you’re ever interested in uncovering what powers your rings may have, I own the House of Curiosities a few streets east of here. The name’s Calixto Corrium.”

“Thank you.”

Just then, Elda returned bearing two plates loaded with bread, cheese, and some jerky. “For your dog,” she told Leara as they traded plates for septims. Leara smiled in thanks – then winced when Bishop plucked a piece of meat and chomped down on it.

Upstairs, Leara and Bishop found a small table near enough to the fire for Karnwyr to curl up while still under their – really, Leara’s – watchful eye.

The great room wasn’t overly crowded, though there were a fair number of customers partaking of an early lunch not dissimilar to theirs. Most were alone or in pairs, so what talking there was was a low murmur. In the corner, a Dunmer woman was lightly strumming a lute, lulling the atmosphere into a cozy calm warmed by the crackling of the hearth. Leara found herself pleasantly surprised by how peaceful it was.

Across from her, Bishop was chomping down on his bread, polishing it off in the time it took Leara to set Karnwyr’s jerky next to him on a napkin and slice her own bread and cheese and put together little sandwiches. “Where’s that barmaid with the ale?” he wondered out loud.

“You may have to go find her,” Leara sniffed. Over Bishop’s shoulder, she saw a woman in a server’s apron disappear into a side room. “I think she went down the back stairs,” she told him.

Grunting, Bishop stumped in that direction, disappearing by the time Susanna reentered the room, a tray of mugs balanced on her arm. Passing by Leara’s table, she deposited a single mug of mead by her plate.

“Thank you,” Leara said, lifting the mug.

“Anytime, my burgundy beauty,” Susanna said with a wink.

Leara pushed her fallen hair behind her ear once the barmaid was gone. She needed to redo her braid again. “It’s mahogany,” she whispered into her mug, lips pinching around the rim.

Her eye caught a plumed red hat making its way through the crowd, coming to a halt across the hearth from her. Underneath, or rather, wearing it, was a short blond man in poet’s sleeves and a wide collar that belonged in an old Nibenese theater, not Windhelm. Was he preening?

“Ahem,” he cleared his throat.

Everyone ignored him.

“Our hero, our hero, clams a warrior’s heart. I tell you, I tell you, the Dragonborn comes!”

What was he doing? Leara frowned, noticing from the corner of her eye as Karnwyr buried his head under his paws. The performance continued. She knew there were bound to be songs about her – she was the embodiment of an ancient Nordic hero – but this? Windhelm was the last place she expected something as Bretic as spoken poetry to become popular. Though, she mused as the man continued his recitation, it didn’t seem to be that popular to begin—

Someone started clapping along to the second reprise of ‘the Dragonborn comes’. Then someone else, and another. She looked around in surprise to find the room far more crowded than before. Where did these people come from?

“What the Hell is that?” Bishop asked, plopping next to her. He pointed at her mead, barely touched, “and where the Hell did that come from?”

“Here,” Leara said, sliding the mug toward him, appetite lost.

“It’s an end to the evil of all Skyrim’s foes. I tell you, I tell you the Dragonborn comes.”

It was like watching a wagon pileup in the middle of the marketplace. It was so bad, and yet she couldn’t look away.

Another drawn-out line, another round of applause, and then the – bard? – swept off his hat and gave a deep bow, his tussled blond hair falling just so around his face. Holding that pose, Leara saw him peek a glance at his audience, before his too green eyes fixed on her. He winked.

“I think my ears are bleeding,” Bishop groaned into Leara’s mug. “I need more mead.”

Bishop left. And the not-quite Bard came over, taking his seat. All Leara could do during this too fast exchange was stare.

“Forgive me, my lady, have I the honor to speak to the Dragonborn?”

How in the—? Divines, was she to be recognized everywhere now? Decades of successfully hiding in plain sight and now her face was imprinted in the minds of every citizen in Skyrim! Even if she managed to keep ahead of the Thalmor now, her lead would be lost as soon as the Dominion got ahold of someone from her growing fan club.

She was quiet for too long, she realized as the bard frowned slightly. It looked as if he didn’t do that often, his muscles seemed unsure as to how to form the lines. “Yes, I . . .”

He cut her off. “By the Divines!” he cried, jumping to his feet. His outburst drew the attention of nearly everyone in the room. “It is delightful to be standing in your presence.”

“Please sit down,” Leara said, hands fisted in her lap. Her palms were cold.

“Today, we witness a living legend among us, none other than the Dragonborn herself!” the bard said, his delivery full of drama. “Our hero, our hero, who indeed claims this warrior’s heart. I told you, I told you, and the Dragonborn came!”

Did he just wink at her again?

Her nails dug into her palms, and she regretted not putting her gloves on that morning.

She stood. “Thank you, but I really must—”

His hand on her elbow stopped her in her tracks. Was it her fate to run into every man in Skyrim who wanted to lay hands on her? “If I could just have a moment of your fine company, my lady! Please allow me to introduce myself. My name is Alec.”

“Lovely to meet you, Alec,” she said tersely. She was a sycophant magnet. Well. Her fingers curled into palm and traced a rune for frost on her skin. “If you would be so kind as to let go of my arm,” she batted her eyelashes. Alec tore his hand away from her as if frostbit. But when he looked back at her arm, there was nothing there.

He gave her an easy grin, bouncing back a little too quickly for her comfort. “I have spent so much of my time studying your adventures,” he explained, his eyes shining. “From the terrors at Helgen to your endless eradication of the dragon menace. You are our hero.” – He made as if to grab her hand but abandoned the movement, thank Akatosh – “Your strength and humility bring hope to every heart in Skyrim. We bards sing your songs so that our children’s children may remember the glory of the Dragonborn, the savior of Tamriel!” Then, in what might have been a smooth line from nearly anyone else, he said, “Though, meeting you I see no account of your beauty has ever given you the justice you deserve.”

“How kind of you.”

“Kindness holds no place over honesty.” And sarcasm cast no shade over rose-colored spectacles. “I speak only the truth. You are truly inspiring, a beautiful muse for the beating heart of a musician.”

“That’s great,” she said, tone as dry as the Alik’r.

“Please,” he pressed, “you must come to a special performance I’m arranging here in Windhelm. I would be delighted for you to be my guest.”

“Re-ally,” Leara drew out. “That sounds lovely, but I’m on a very important errand now, crucial to the safety of the world you understand. I—”

“Just you wait, my dear!” he said, steamrolling over her. Could she not get a word in edgewise with this bard? “I am so pleased to share the experience with you. I will see you at the palace, my muse.”

Wait— “The palace?”

Alec nodded, far too enthusiastic. “The Palace of the Kings. The Jarl’s steward has engaged me for the evening to perform for the court. But what is performing for jarls and lords when the most legendary woman in Skyrim will be there in a place of honor?”

The Jarl?

The tension in her chest snapped into place like an iron lung. Her insides were cold and hot at once. Was she nervous? She couldn’t tell, and she usually did so well at maintaining her internal equilibrium. It’s nothing, she told herself. Nothing. She saw him at Helgen and his eyes glazed right over her face. It would be the same here, certainly? He might show an interest in her being Dragonborn – hopefully one with more decorum than shown by some of her fanatics – but he would only see her as the Dragonborn, right? He wouldn’t see a ghost from his past. Not even Elenwen—

She thumbed the black band, pushing it back and forth around her finger.

“Tonight, my muse,” Alec said, and Leara was so preoccupied that when he reached for her hand and kissed it, she let him.

Leara was still standing, stiff and statuesque, when Bishop rejoined her. An involuntarily whiff told her he’d downed at least three mugs of mead, on top of finishing hers earlier. “We’re going to a bard performance tonight,” she said, face stony.

“The Hell? Why are we doing a stupid thing like that?”

“We were invited.” Leara closed her eyes, resigned. “Well, I was, and since you insist on following me everywhere, that means you’re coming as well.” At his baleful look, she stuck her nose in the air. “It’s the polite thing to do,” she sniffed.

“Polite? Ladyship, do you realize just how many things you do for people because it’s the ‘polite thing to do’?” Bishop asked, huffing mead scented air in her face. “What’s the point in endearing yourself to them? They’re useless and they will use you in return!”

“Perhaps,” Leara said, willing to play Daedra’s advocate. “But when people like you, it’s easier to get things done.”

He gave her a dark look. “Whatever. I still question your intelligence.”

She was too, seeing as she was about to risk exposure.

·•★•·

The worn silk slipped through her fingers with painstaking familiarity. After so long wrapped up in the bottom of her bag, she was surprised and relieved to find it still intact. The folds of the skirt needed steaming and the white lace girdle was pinched, but it was nothing she couldn’t fix with a little Alteration. Such spells were some of her first castings, even before she learned to dance with ice and fire.

“Hey, what’re you doing?”

“Did your mother not teach you to knock?” she asked, pulling and tucking the lace with gentle quirks of her fingers. Tendrils of white gold magicka curled through the threads, aligning them to their original pattern.

“She taught me to drink and not to trust people,” he said. He leaned over her shoulder. “Is that some kind of housewife magic?”

“Tailor’s craft,” she corrected. She’d forgotten how much lace made up this girdle! “It’s not very common outside of High Rock or the Imperial City.”

“Huh.”

Leara continued to work her way through the lace, restoring it to order. Once that was finished, she cupped her hand and breathed a Bretic rune word; steam pillowed in her hand, and she ran it slowly down the gauzy skirting.

“So what’s this for?” Bishop asked. He’d sat down on the floor with Karnwyr as she worked.

“Tonight,” Leara said, concentrating on her gown. “You do realize we’re attending court, yes?”

“Yeah, I just don’t care,” he replied. “Why dress myself up for a bunch of lazy, entitled nobles and one creepy little bard?” He snorted, “Bards! As if he’d know anything about letting women come for anything. His voice alone is enough to send them running in the opposite direction.”

She decided to ignore literally most of that comment. “We’re attending the court of Ulfric Stormcloak. He’s hardly a lazy noble.” In fact, he’s so energetic that he could kill her.

“No, he’s worse.” Bishop said, sitting straighter. He braced his arm on his raised knee. “He’s a religious freak with the power to sway people to his side like mindless zombies. And for what? Talos worship? Pfft, I don’t like the Empire by any means and the Thalmor can rot in Oblivion for all I care, but starting a war just so you can worship a damn god is stupid. I’d sooner eat Karnwyr than die for any god.”

“I didn’t realize you hated the gods so much,” Leara murmured.

“I’m surprised you don’t.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Don’t you see?” His hand was on her calf. Leara stilled, her only movement the mechanic back and forth of the steam spell over her skirt. “They made you Dragonborn and left you to take care of their mess for them. How can you trust them when they’re the reason you have to throw yourself in front of every blasted dragon in Skyrim?” His grip tightened, right on the lined trousers that usually sat under her greaves. She continued steaming. There was a stubborn crease near the hem, and she needed to be careful getting out lest she burn the delicate skirt. “They play a game with everyone’s life, with your life, and you just stand back and watch it happen!”

“Yes,” Leara whispered. Contrary to Bishop’s intention, she felt a sudden urge to go join a chapel to one of the Divines. Maybe when this was all over, she could become a Priestess of Akatosh? The Dragonborn spreading the teachings of the Dragon God. The irony made her smile.

“—that’s why you need to be careful tonight, ladyship.”

What? “Yeah, sure.”

·•★•·

“I must say, you look quite sexy tonight. All that armor you wear covers up the best parts.”

“You’re too kind,” she said with a dry snort. Leara burrowed into the cloak she’d borrowed from Susanna; she would need to buy one of her own for the journey to Winterhold. An alchemist or the blacksmith may be interested in the dragonscales in her bag. Selling those would cover any cost. She hoped.

Bishop, as expected, wore his same old travel-stained leathers. Whereas Leara left her katana tucked in-between the bed and wall in her room with a napping Karnwyr to act as guard, Bishop’s bow and quiver remained on his back and she knew that if she searched him, she’d find more than one dagger, too. She supposed she couldn’t blame him for wanting to be armed; while she had a wide arsenal of spells she could reply on, his mundanity limited him to what tangible weapons he could get his hands on. Still, given his volatile nature, she wasn’t entirely comfortable with him walking fully armed into a jarl’s court.

Even if the Jarl might kill her.

“I take it you’re ready for the performance?” she asked as they left Candlehearth Hall for the frosty dusk coating Windhelm’s streets. Masser and Secunda were visible overhead against a backdrop of constellations and distant stars. Leara hoped that meant there would be no snowfall overnight.

“No, I couldn’t find enough wool to plug up my ears with.” Bishop held up a flask and took a long swig from it. “There’s not enough mead in all of Skyrim to make me ready for this crap.”

“But you’re still going to try,” Leara sighed. As much as she wasn’t looking forward to another spoken word poetry fest that would likely feature her as a subject, her own worry kept her mind too alert to think about drinking even the first mug of mead, much less the endless stream she knew Bishop would soon imbibe. “You might actually forget everything anyway.”

“Trust me, I have other ways of forgetting. Mead or not,” Bishop chuckled.

She pinched her nose; exhausted already and they hadn’t even arrived at the palace! “I’m sure they’ll have enough free alcohol that you want need any of your other methods.”

They were quiet the rest of the way to the Palace of the Kings, though Leara couldn’t consider it peaceful. Bishop was a specter at her side, glaring at passersby and sneering at the guards. His attitude was sour, and it blackened her already worried mind. As they ascended the steps to the palace avenue, Leara felt the tension tighten around her ribs, constricting. She forced a deep breath, and then another. Feim. Zii. She exhaled.

Everything was going to be fine.

After telling the gate guards why they were there, Leara and Bishop entered the great hall. Removing her borrowed cloak, she folded it over her forearm and took in the room. It was a long, high-ceilinged room with towering stone walls draped in blue banners depicting the golden outline of the bear sigil. Centermost was a banquet table where a team of kitchen maids were arranging bowls and platters in preparation for dinner. If all went well and they stayed for the feast, she’d try to take a beef bone back to Karnwyr. He would like that.

Bishop gave a low whistle. “A lot of history in place like this. And a lot of riches, for that matter.”

“Yeah,” Leara nodded, voice distant.

As if dragged by an unseen force, her gaze found the throne. Framed by the banners of Eastmarch, it sat high on a dais at the end of the hall. The throne of Ysgramor. The throne of the Jarl of Windhelm.

It was empty.

Leara released a slow breath. Where was he? As she looked around, a Nord with a rather impressive mustache exited from a side passage. On seeing Leara and Bishop, he hurried over, his fur lined hat flopping back and forth on his head. “Hail, you’re the Dragonborn, I take it?”

“Yes, I am,” Leara answered, resigning herself to public recognition no matter where she went.

“I’m Jorleif, the Jarl’s steward. I was asked to keep a look out for you, but,” his gaze shifted to Bishop, who loomed over Leara’s shoulder with a dark scowl on his face, “your guest wasn’t expected.”

“Go figure!” Bishop mumbled. It took all that was in Leara not to lean back and dig a sharp elbow into his ribs.

“His presence isn’t a bother, is it?” Leara smiled.

Jorleif shifted from foot to foot. “We have plenty of seating in the gallery. The two of you just won’t be together.”

“That’s not—”

“That’s fine, thank you,” Leara cut over Bishop.

“Right,” Jorleif nodded, glancing between the ranger’s hard glare and the Dragonborn’s genteel smile. “If you’ll follow me.”

Jorleif led them down the passage he’d appeared from before and into a low hallway lined with torches. “The concert is being held in the Gallery of Kings. Normally Jarl Ulfric likes to keep it reserved for quiet reflections honoring the old kings, but he agreed for the concert to be held there.”

“Will the Jarl be in attendance?” Leara asked, forcing her lungs to expand.

“Oh yes,” the steward nodded as they crossed into a long room. It was smaller than the great hall, with a much lower ceiling, but that did nothing to diminish the effect of the statues framing the walls, situated between fogged glass windows like pillars. A large statue, holding the likeness of a war axe carved with the face of a screaming elf, stood across from the entrance and to the side. Leara twitched, uncomfortable at the sight. So that was the great Ysgramor and his mighty Wuuthrad. Lovely.

The hall was already fairly full as people milled about the side tables arranged on either side of the entrance where platters of tarts and rolls, though most were already settled in seats closer to the back. There were enough mead bottles available too, she noticed as Bishop snagged two, both for himself. Leara counted several empty benches closer to the front. She looked to Jorleif in question. “Assigned seating for the thanes and great families of the city,” he explained. “And you of course, Dragonborn.”

“You’re telling me all those empty seats already belong to somebody?” Bishop demanded.

“Yes,” said Jorleif. He pointed to a chair near the backrow that stood next to a statue adorned a large beard, knotted at the end, and a winged crown. The plaque beneath read; Jorunn the Skald-King. “This will do for you, I think, if the Dragonborn agrees.”

“Sweetness—”

“Sit beside the Skald-King, Bishop. Perhaps he’ll teach you something about music during the concert,” Leara quipped. She couldn’t say she wasn’t relieved not to be sitting with Bishop. She already wasn’t looking forward to whatever Alec had planned for her, but it would be infinitely more tolerable without Bishop griping in her ear through the whole thing.

“This way,” Jorleif said, leading her from the silently fuming ranger toward the front row. Leara’s jaw slackened when she saw the ornate highbacked chair in the center of the aisle. “That’s not mine, is it?” she asked, chest welling with trepidation.

“Ah, no,” Jorleif coughed. He directed her attention to shorter, though no less ornate chair. Its back was just low enough to let her hair cascade in an unobstructed waterfall. “There’s your seat, Dragonborn. Enjoy”

“Thank you,” Leara whispered, mouth pressed into a line as she stared at it. Why did something tell her that this chair was chosen just to display her hair? It was such a small idea, really inconsequential, but she got the impression that Alec was well attuned to such attentions to detail. Which was fine, except when it came to her. Then it was more than a little creepy, especially after they shared only one conversation. Sighing, she tucked a faded red strand behind her ear. She would need to reapply the dye soon.

It wasn’t an uncomfortable chair, she decided once she sat down. It’d be better if it was placed closer to the middle in the midst of everyone else. While she had an excellent view of the area sectioned off to act as the stage, she knew very well she was in excellent view of both Alec and the audience, which didn’t bode well if he did or said anything embarrassing.

Why was she subjecting herself to this, again?

A thud and a sigh next to her jerked her from her silent crisis. The taller chair was occupied. Crystal eyes glanced up, meeting a wall of storms before darting away, back to the stage.

“Ah, Dragonborn. I was told you would be attending tonight’s festivities,” Ulfric Stormcloak said by way of greeting.

“Jarl Ulfric, it’s an honor,” she said, ending in a squeak. She cleared her throat, flushing. She met his raised eyebrow with a reassuring smile. It didn’t do anything for her, but the Jarl of Windhelm nodded, placated.

She couldn’t help but stare at him. Aside from a brief glimpse from a separate prison wagon and then another stolen stare as they escaped the fires of Helgen, it had been twenty-six years since she’d seen him, really seen him. The decades between carried news of his campaigns, but they said nothing of the storm in his eye nor the steel in his face. This was the man who would be High King.

And if he knew the truth, he would be her executioner.

“I must admit, I wasn’t looking for you to come to Windhelm,” he was saying.

“Oh?”

“Yesterday, I received a report from a patrol of the dragon you felled south of Kynesgrove. That’s the second one you’ve slain in my hold, and yet you avoid the city.” He leaned across the armrest of his chair. “Are you nervous, Dragonborn?”

“Ye—no. I’m fine,” she coughed. Ulfric offered her his unopened mead. Surprised, she took it, but only picked at the wax seal.

“I don’t blame you if you are,” he said lowly. Leara gaped at him. He what? “The attention of bards can be overwhelming, especially ones such as this Alec,” Ulfric’s nose wrinkled. Clearly, he didn’t enjoy Alec’s spoken word poetry, either. “I heard he’s planning to pen the complete account of your travels. Says he’ll call it the Ode to the Dragonborn.”

“That’s a rubbish title,” Leara heard herself respond. “That couldn’t even be classified as an ode. It’s an epic.”

“What would you call it?” Ulfric asked her.

Her mind whirled. “The Strundu'ul Edda.”

The storm in his eyes lit up. “Stormcrown. Fearsome.”

“I thought so,” Leara smiled. She smiled? She exhaled and studied the Jarl of Windhelm under her lashes. His mask had improved by leaps and bounds in the last two and a half decades, of this she was certain. But she’d seen under it – was there when it shattered. She knew the invisible cracks only a few could see like the lines on her palms. None of them were telling; he held no hidden thoughts from her, not right now.

He didn’t recognize her. Not her voice, not her face. Nothing.

And of course he wouldn’t, she chastised herself. How could he? Her right hand tightened over the left, over her rings. The black band’s enchantment wasn’t active; she passed for an elf of mixed ancestry. Not an Altmer. Not a member of the Aldmeri Dominion. This whole time, she was working herself up for nothing. After all, she was a Blade, the art of concealment was her domain. If she could slip under Elenwen’s nose at the ambassador’s own party, why couldn’t she slip under Ulfric Stormcloak’s? One weight out of many left her shoulders, and she relaxed into the feeling.

“I take it you don’t particularly care for Alec’s work?”

Ulfric chuckled at her inquiry. “Hardly, but Jorleif persuaded me. He said such festivities would be good for me and good for the people. For the people’s sake, I agreed. Though I do not think you agree,” he added wryly at Leara’s grimace.

Leara glanced over her shoulder. Several of the front benches were occupied now, though the ones closest to her and Ulfric were still empty. Turning back, she whispered in a conspiratorial whisper, “Oh, it’ll likely be very nice for the people. But not for me, I think.” At Ulfric’s inquisitive eyebrow, she elaborated: “As you know, as Dragonborn, I am Alec’s, ah, muse.”

“My condolences,” Ulfric bowed his head, though she could see the twinkle in his eye.

Leara couldn’t help but marvel at this entire exchange. If someone told her that morning that she’d be seated with Ulfric Stormcloak in his hall, making digs about a sycophantic bard, she likely would’ve accused them of being on skooma. And yet, here she was.

Both Leara and Ulfric straightened in their seats as a pale haired women swathed in crimson and gold stepped on to the manufactured stage. “Please, everyone, take your seats as the show is about to begin.”

“Here we go,” Leara sighed. Beside her, Ulfric barely suppressed a laugh.

Then Alec was on stage, poet sleeves puffed and plumed hat primmed. Spreading his arms, he gave a shallow bow. “Good evening, Windhelm! May I thank you all for venturing out on this cold, wintry night to witness the One, the Great, Alec, Prince of Song! I wish to dedicate tonight’s performance to someone very special to me.” His too green eyes found her, piercing. He winked at her. “She is the most inspiring, beautiful woman I have ever met, and I have a song in my heart I must sing to her.”

She mouthed a vague, “By Talos, this can’t be happening,” as Alec lifted his lute.

Then, honest to the Divines, he began to sing. “Let me dream of you and me and a place to be. Let me heal those scars unrevealed.”

Leara pressed herself into her chair, mortification building with every word this so-called ‘Prince of Song’ sang to a crowd of Windhelm’s citizens. Words about his feelings for her. What she could do for him. Her worrying nails broke the seal of Ulfric’s mead, and she guzzled it just to distract herself from the unpleasantness.

“Only you can save me. Only you can heal me,” he pleaded, strumming a handful of chords on his instrument. “Cure my eternal loneliness and kill my blinding hopelessness!”

Every mode and method of interrogation she was taught under the exactingg hand of the Aldmeri Dominion paled in the face of this new torture. Perhaps, perhaps Alec was a Thalmor agent sent to break her and return her to the Embassy? If so, she had to hand it to Elenwen for her originality. Prolonged exposure of this kind might just break her.

Would definitely break her, she corrected once Alec begged for her to let him love her. Whoever said things were better when put to song was wrong. They were actually so much worse. The urge to bury her face in her hands and scream mounted the longer and more explicit the song drone on, especially once the audience began to participate, clapping hands and snapping fingers to the steady tempo set by the lute.

“Let me dream of you and me for all eternity in a place where you can be with me . . .” Alec sang drawing out the final note. His ardent verdant stare didn’t sway from her in the moment.

Applause swelled throughout the gallery. In the chair next to hers, Ulfric gave a few short claps, but no more. The lines drawing down his mouth told her exactly what he thought of the performance.

And it was only the first of the evening.

·•★•·

“I have never been so embarrassed,” Leara whispered when Alec finally left the stage and a trio of Nords were drums and a flute took up a pounding jig.

“I’m sure,” Ulfric told her. “It was wildly inappropriate.”

“The audience didn’t seem to think so,” Leara sniffed, baleful. “They were quite into it.”

“They did not have the advantage of observing the lack of amusement from the bard’s muse during the performance,” the Jarl reminded her.

Leara’s mouth popped open. “Was that a pun?” she asked, a giggle springing up and taking her by surprise.

Instead of answering, Ulfric gave her a little half smile. Getting to his feet, offered her his hand. “Would you join me for some refreshment, Dragonborn?”

“Yes, thank you,” she said, pretending she didn’t see his hand as she gathered the stray wax from the mead’s seal. Straightening, she met his eyes, and felt the curious eyes of the crowd on her – them – as the people intermingled around them. She cleared her throat, and added, “My Jarl,” in a subdued tone.

Ulfric gave her a wry smile, and she wondered about it as he led her through the chattering crowd toward to the refreshments. There was a quiet humor in him, wry and seasoned, but subtle in its delivery. Backhanded compliments were likely right up his alley. She recalled his dry retorts those first few days in the chamber. Before his voice gave way to the strain of screams.

A sharp intake of breath. She closed her eyes. This evening was getting to be too much, too memorable in more ways than one.

Warm fingers brushed against her hand, encircling her wrist. Her heartbeat stuttered. “Yes, my Jarl—”

“Pet names, darling? Not too sure how I feel about that one.”

Leara’s eyes blew open. Bishop stood in front of her, his hand clamped over hers like a manacle. Over his shoulder, she could see Ulfric Stormcloak engaged in a quiet conversation with Jorleif, a crease lining his brow.

“I thought—”

“I know what you thought,” Bishop bit out in a hiss, just audible over the murmur of the crowd and the lively music beat out by the band. “You do realize that I and every blasted fool in here could see you two? What the Hell were you thinking, giggling and batting your eyes at him like some cheap whore?”

“Bishop—” Not here, please. Not here, not now.

“Did I not tell you to keep your head down and avoid the damn Jarl?” His voice was quiet, but it cut through her with the subtle precision of an assassin’s blade.

She swallowed. “If you did, I wasn’t listening.”

“You stupid woman!”

Breathe in, breathe out. She mustered an air of indifference, “I didn’t pledge myself to the Civil War, if that’s what you’re worried about!”

The cold eyes and curled lip Bishop gave her chilled her blood more than her frost magic ever could. “As if that’s the only thing I was worried about.”

In a sea of people, she was an island, caught in a hurricane as the waters churned around her. Not here, the little voice in the back of her mind whimpered. Not in front of all these people. Not in front of—

“My muse!”

Leara jolted backward, freeing herself from Bishop’s grasp as Alec materialized at her side.

“It’s so wonderful to see you again! I’m overjoyed that you came!” His hand sought hers, but she pressed it into the folds of her skirt, just out of reach.

“Are you serious?” Bishop frowned. Alec ignored him.

She was strangling on cotton. “Ah, Alec, your music was . . .” Embarrassing. Discomforting. Creepy. “. . . sweet.” Nauseatingly so.

That sickening feeling resurfaced at Alec’s lovesick expression. “My beautiful muse, I’m so glad you enjoyed it,” he said. “Please, dine with me tonight, my lady. I wish to sing for you more. I wish to hear all of your wonderful stories from the road. We can spend an unforgettable night together.”

In whose bed? she wondered, her stomach churning. “I—”

“The Dragonborn has agreed to be my guest tonight, bard. Save your offer for another night,” Ulfric Stormcloak said. He’d rejoined her without anyone noticing. “Unless she would like to accept your offer. Mine can sit for another night,” he said, the fine lines at the corners of his eyes crinkling. He knew bloody well she had no intention of spending an evening with Alec, tonight or any other!

“Jarl uh, Jarl Ulfric,” stammered Alec, eloquence lost.

In the background, Bishop growled. He was ignored.

“I,” Leara began. Her eyes were caught in Ulfric’s storm. She wanted to – but no. Tonight was too much, even after – or in part because of the unexpected camaraderie between her and the Jarl of Windhelm. If only . . . But Bishop’s burning stare torched her skin. There was an expectancy in them, as if he knew she would choose him. It dawned on her then to fear what he might say or do if she didn’t. Don’t test him here, she told herself. Not tonight. “I’m rather tired,” she said, voice thin. “I beg your pardon, my Jarl, but I believe I’ll take my leave for the evening.”

Ulfric frowned, and Leara wondered if it was directed toward her or either of the men beside her. It could be for the war, she thought. His mind could be leagues away with his war camps, returning to his cause after the momentary distraction she brought him. She was an evening’s entertainment in more ways than one, it seemed. “As you wish,” he said, tilting his head in acceptance. “Until we meet again, Dragonborn.” And then he was gone without acknowledging either Bishop or Alec, lost in the sea of people.

“Are you certain you wish to leave so soon, my muse?” Alec asked. “I can promise you a night you will never forget!”

“She said she’s tired, boy. Let the woman rest, will you?” Bishop growled.

“Savage,” Alec sneered, the movement awkward and stiff, but no less pretentious on his smooth face. He turned to Leara, “Are you sane, my lady? How can you trust a man like this?”

Bishop made a move toward Alec, but the bard didn’t seem quite as intimidated by Bishop as he was by Ulfric Stormcloak. In fact, he looked purely disdainful. A fight was sparking between them. Before it could rise into a blaze there in the middle of palace, Leara did the only thing she could think of to put out the fire.

Throwing herself at Bishop, she wrapped her arms around his shoulders. “Let’s leave, Bishop.”

Alec made a strangled noise, but Bishop’s attention was focused solely on her. There was a glimmer in his eyes that unsettled her stomach more than it already was, but she remained where she was. A blanket of snow to put out the fire.

“C’mon.” Bishop’s voice was gruff. Leara felt eyes boring into her as Bishop’s arm encircled her waist. He led her from the hall, Alec spluttering gracelessly in their wake.

She could never show her face in Windhelm again.

#i didn't know you were keeping count #fanfic #ao3 #ulfric stormcloak #bishop #karnwyr #alec the prince of song #windhelm open mic night #anti bishop #dovahkiin #the elder scrolls #skyrim #tes #mod post #oc: leara roseblade #last dragonborn

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hellotherekenobi · 1 year

Text

LOVE ME AND MEND

03. THE DENOUEMENT

Chapter Summary: with the big day approaching, much is weighing on Obi-Wan’s mind, much like you. The question is, who will speak first?

Word Count: 6.1k

Index: Previous Chapter. Masterlist.

The night is young when supper is had and Qui-Gon, Anakin, and Sir Naberrie are walking down the hallway on the lookout for Sir Kenobi.

He had been fairly quiet during supper and so had you been, which only made the trio of comrades jubilant with the knowledge that the discussion of both of your “confessions” have sunk in deep.

Only a few words were spoken and one had been when Kenobi offered bread to your ladyship, which you had welcomed but when you reached for them, you had knocked your elbow into the wine bottle on the table and spilt red onto the cloth covering.

All three men had tried their hardest to stifle their laughter, very much entertained by you and Kenobi’s behaviour.

But he had run off afterwards and they are intent on seeking him out. They had checked the courtyard and reception hall and when they found both empty, they decided to go to the guest rooms which Sir Naberrie had graciously arranged for them.

Good thinking on their part, too, as when they reach the doorway into Kenobi’s quarters, they peer around the corner to see him standing in front of the mirror hung on the wall and combing his hair.

He’s being especially delicate with his grooming, making sure that each strand of hair is settled to his satisfaction. He quickly puts the brush down and looks between two vests he had thrown over his shoulder, holding it up to himself and debating between which looks best.

When he wears one and twirls in a gaudy fashion in the mirror, the three men peering in at the scene burst out into laughter.

Obi-Wan turns to them, startled by the noise, but soon grumbles at the faces of his comrades.

“Gallants,” he sighs, adjusting his clothes, “I am not like this usually.”

“No,” Ruwee smiles, “I think you are sadder.”

As the men laugh, Obi-Wan puts his hands on his hips. He hadn’t wanted anyone to see him care about his appearance so much, seeing as it’s worn for the attention of someone in particular. But that is not a fact they need to know.

“I am simply perusing my options,” he huffs.

Throwing the remaining vest onto the bed, he wonders if that will be enough to deter their ridicule. They are acting very much like younglings and it irritates him to think that they are walking around with such a big secret.

This afternoon, Obi-Wan overheard the three of them say that you are in love with him. Though he at first was shocked, he soon became swoonful.

Fortunately for him, they do not know that he knows, nor do they know just how head over heels he’s feeling toward you.

He begins to walk out of the room but as he nears them at the doorway, he is stopped by Anakin who taps his shoulder, yet lightly. It’s almost as if he wants his attention but not directly.

“I hope you are in love,” he says with a youthful curve to his mouth.

It sends Obi-Wan into an inward spiral, wanting to both scream out and remain silent. But he knows that if he does either of those things, it will only spur his padawan on more.

No, he needs an excuse. Something plain and believable.

“I have a toothache,” Obi-Wan says.

“Sigh for a toothache?” Jinn shakes his head. “No, I too say he is in love.”

Obi-Wan will sigh for an itch on his skin, let alone a toothache. They know him to be vocal about all sorts of things and discomfort is a topic he has delved into before. Either they are having their fun, drunk on Naboo wine, or they are poking him with the intention for him to burst.

“He must be in love with a woman since look at his appearance,” Ruwee says, pointing at him, “he has combed his hair.”

“Yes,” Anakin nods, “and his beard is trimmed,”

“And he smells of Rominaria,” Jinn concedes.

“Hmm, is that for your benefit, Sir Kenobi, or for hers?”

What a ludicrous thought. If Obi-Wan is to woo a lady, he can do it without the help of a potent fragrance, especially one so flowery. Though it’s true that he is in fact wearing an essence, he’s certainly not going to own up to it.

They tease him and yet they will not succeed in squeezing the truth from his lips. He is keeping them sealed shut. The only words that he will speak will be to discourage their scrutinizing.

Before Obi-Wan can reply, however, Qui-Gon is talking over him.

“Yes, I conclude that he is in love.”

“Truthfully, and I know who loves him,” Anakin grins.

Obi-Wan turns to look at him, his chin pointed upward.

“I too,” Jinn nods.

Yet, they do know not enough of the heartfelt news as he is likewise a partaker.

“Sir Naberrie, please walk with me,” he says, clearing his throat. “I have studied eight or nine wise words to speak to you, which these Nerf herders must not hear.”

Though Qui-Gon and Anakin snicker, Ruwee grants Obi-Wan an audience. Just as well this happens straight away since Obi-Wan feels in his own sort of tormenting limbo by undergoing their ribbing.

They step away onto the terrace, walking casually and yet Kenobi is fidgeting with his hands. He is at least thankful that the night is cool, so he may avoid melting to his feet.

“What is your dilemma, Sir Kenobi?” Ruwee asks.

What a fitting description of the truth of it. He is having some difficulty with this.

Obi-Wan had an entire plan drawn up in his mind. He had rehearsed his speech with perfect precision and adapted a few arrangements should his original declaration not sway Sir Naberrie’s mind.

Thankfully, his group of merry men had not come to his quarters earlier; if they did, they would have heard him practice the speech in the mirror.

Though, as they walk, he feels himself worry that all of his preparation has been for nought and that he may not have the courage to say what he wants as well as he thinks.

The whole galaxy labels him a grand negotiator but, Maker above, he cannot speak on the topic of his heart without feeling dizzy in the head. He’s seen space more than he’s seen the ground he walks on, yet now, with so much anxiety creeping up his spine, he sees stars.

“Well, sir, I have something on my mind,” Obi-Wan starts, clearly enough.

“Your mind?” Ruwee encourages, looking at him with a curious gaze.

“And my heart, more so,”

“Do tell, Sir Kenobi, or else I will pass with high hopes.”

He might pass away in a moment as the nerves are climbing up his throat like bile. He will not make such a scene, though. Instead, he takes a deep breath and reminds himself that if this doesn’t work, there are plenty of fish in the sea.

Yet, you are the only one he has his sights set upon and, if he truly does fail in reeling in his line, he will send himself lifeless into hyperspace.

“I refer to your niece, Sir Naberrie,” Kenobi says. “As you know, we have not been the most familiar of associates, which I would like to amend,”

Ruwee furrows his eyebrows. “You mean to say that you no longer hold interest in your conflicts?”

“Yes. Or rather, not entirely, but instead I possess a new interest,”

“I hardly see what this has to do with me,” Ruwee shrugs. “If you are keen to move on, then so be it.”

Obi-Wan croaks, watching this conversation steer off its path.

“No, sir, that is not it.”

“Then out with it, good Jedi!”

“Sir Naberrie,” Obi-Wan takes a breath, trying not to sound impatient, though he is more restless at his lack of translation, “I am asking for your blessing so that I may wed your niece.”

The pause that he is expecting does not come. He’s waiting for a moment of thought, silent enough for him to hear a pin drop, but instead, the gentleman beside him seems the least bit astonished. Given the circumstances, he seems rather calm.

“You want to marry my niece?” Ruwee asks, a bemused look on his face. “But I presumed you loathed her?”

“No, in fact, I do love her.”

Obi-Wan has had so many bouts with you that surely, to any onlooker, it would appear as if he does detest your company. Perhaps at one point he believed he felt that way but come this afternoon, he’s more sure that his genuine, deep impulsion is rooted in an amiable disposition.

In fact, his yearning is so intertwined with his spirit—his force signature, even—that if he cannot have you, he may die.

“Please, sir,” he solicits, “may I have your permission for her hand?”

He has never begged for anything in his life. He never begged to become a Jedi, begged to become a General, or begged to be a part of the Council. If anything, the only time he has ever pleaded for something has been for Anakin to stop talking.

That padawan of his is so impulsive. What irritates Obi-Wan the most about it is how he can see himself in his comrade’s actions. Had he not been trained so acutely by his master, Qui-Gon Jinn, then he believes he might have ended up the same way.

But now, standing under the moonlit sky, and feeling more vulnerable than he’s ever done, Obi-Wan begs Sir Naberrie for the only thing he has ever truly wanted for himself.

If he never heard about your affections, he wouldn’t fight so hard. But knowing that you love him when he loves you is enough of a driving force for him to stand by his wish.

Stopping in his steps, Ruwee graciously eases Obi-Wan’s thoughts.

“Why, Sir Kenobi, my heart is with your liking. I have watched you grow into a fine, young man. And my niece has grown with you. It is unequivocal.”

There is no further statement and this time, Obi-Wan does hear a pin drop. They stand face to face with each other in a moment of silence, allowing the structure of his response to become clear.

“So,” Obi-Wan speaks, his heart racing, “I have your permission?”

Ruwee smiles, placing a firm hand on Kenobi’s shoulder. He squeezes it strongly, gingerly rocking him back and forth.

Then he answers, “Of course.”

It’s as if a firework has blown inside of his chest as Obi-Wan lights up from the inside out, his face breaking out into a wide smile and crinkled eyes.

The worrying is done, he thinks. He has now the blessing of Sir Naberrie to conjoin with you in the state of honorable marriage. It is really so! His hopes are no longer a dream.

To think that he swore to die a bachelor. But how could he, really, when you already exist in his life?

“Thank you, sir!” He cheers, shaking Ruwee’s hand vigorously.

Ruwee laughs as Obi-Wan skips away, bolting into the château. He runs with such a sprite to his step that it is only proven further to Ruwee that this game of Dejarik which Sir Jinn set up to play is indeed worthy.

He at one point believed that his niece could never fall in love with a man and that Kenobi would have to be the very last man in the galaxy for that to ever happen. But with an eager Jedi running off blissfully into the night, Ruwee knows that the heart is true.

And, truly, Kenobi is immeasurably in love with you.

─────── ⋯ ───────

There is not a lot that can scare you. In fact, you like to consider yourself quite tough given the circumstances. And yet, your heart almost leaps out of your throat when while you are walking to your bedchamber, Kenobi finds you and asks if he can speak with you in private.

Surely, in the empty hallway only filled with the two of you, it is enough privacy for whatever is on his mind, but he asks you with such ambition that you allow him to walk you outside into the gardens.

Usually, you are unshakable in the presence of practically anyone, but as you and Kenobi walk the starlit path, you feel unmistakably nervous.

After learning that he loves you, all of your actions around him have been so floundering. You might as well be a fish out of the water with how ridiculous your behavior is around him.

First, you had knocked over a bottle of wine during supper. Next, you tripped over your own sandals when you stepped foot onto the grass outside.

Now, twirling a flower stem you had plucked from a nearby bush, you are failing in hiding how anxious you are. Not that you are fearful of being alone with Kenobi, but because now you are looking at him with rosy eyes and it makes every inch of you skittish.

There is a moment when the two of you lock eyes but it’s not lived for long; both of you look away from each other with an awkward chuckle which puts the origin of embarrassment to shame.

The silence is nauseating and you cannot live in it any longer, so you open your mouth to say something, anything at all, but Kenobi has the same thought as you and speaks over your words.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “Please continue.”

“Oh, no,” you shake your head. “You talk.”

His smile is shaky when you say it and yet it does nothing since the two of you submerge into silence once more.

Mother of Kwath, could this be any more awful?

Who would have known how useless you are in flirting? Perhaps your prior resolve for never marrying was a way of saving anyone foolish enough to hold an interest in you.

That being said, Kenobi has always been a fool, so you suppose it adds up.

“What is it that you wanted to speak about?” You ask, trying to understand his intentions for coming out here in the first place.

“There is something I wish to say to you,” he speaks, relatively hushed.

“Yes, sir?”

“I hope you will not find this too brash but I am enamored,”

With a hopeful spark to your breath, you nod. “Enamored, sir?”

“Yes,” he keeps your gaze, “I am burning up.”

Genuinely, you feel the same. This yearning you have is boiling, blazing underneath your skin. The ferocity of it might leave you flushed.

There have been other suitors before in your life, other men who have attempted to woo you. All of whom you turned down, even Master Jinn. Yet, only one man has ever pursued you a second time and it is the same fidgeting man in front of you now.

The first time he had sought your heart, he was much the same timid wreck. He had stumbled over his words but grew confident when you had agreed to his advances.

Remembering how Kenobi has seemed to love you since the beginning and how awful you have treated him, though in fun, makes you feel distressed with yourself.

Do you really deserve a heart like his?

Regretfully, you think not. So, you turn away from him, feeling overwhelmed with both wanting a confession from him and wanting him to merely jest with you. Your cousin was right, he deserves someone who can care for him better than you can.

You feel rather ridiculous when the concern you have turns into tangible form; warm tears pricking your eyes and threatening to fall.

With your back turned against him, you seek out a distraction so as not to embarrass yourself with such a wet emotion and play with the Queen’s Heart bush in front of you.

“I am sure you have more pressing matters to attend to,” Obi-Wan speaks, “but I promise I will not take long.”

Shaking your head, you don’t even dare to speak with the possibility that your voice will crack if you do. That will only make matters worse.

As adamantly as you have sworn against a betrothed, you swear more rigidly against never letting Obi-Wan see you cry.

“Are you all right?” He asks, and you feel him creep up behind you.

Turning to the side so that he cannot see your face, you nod your head with a curt hum and hope that will satiate his question and that he will not poke any further. Even now, tears have begun to stream down your cheeks.

“My lady,” he coos, bringing a hand to your shoulder and encouraging you to look at him.

It is beyond your control whether or not you stop crying, seeing as the irksome tears dropped anchor without your permission. After all, maybe the sight of you in this state will be the deterrent you need in forcing him away from you.

So, you sigh deeply and turn toward him, and his face casts a cloud of concern.

“Have you wept all this time?” He asks.

“Yes,” you reply, noting the fragility of your voice, “and I will weep longer still.”

“I do not desire that,” he shakes his head and his hand on your shoulder squeezes firmly.

“You have no reason to,”

The Obi-Wan you know would laugh at your tears and perhaps encourage more of them with an offhand remark. That is, in fact, what you were expecting instead of his caring, tender words.

If you had not heard about his feelings, you would think he is being insincere.

“Can I not call for someone?” He asks. “Perhaps one of your cousin’s handmaidens, in order to aid you?”

“No,” you shake your head, “I don’t want anyone to see me like this.”

“Yet, I see you,”

“Against my will,”

You push off of him, walking further down the grassy path. He is intent on following you, however, right over to the water fountain in the centre, lit up with encased candles.

“What do you need, my lady?” He asks.

Brushing the tears away from your cheeks, you sigh. “Comfort, sir, but I have no such friend.”

“Then may a man do it?”

“There is no man.”

He would have to be a real gem in order to sway your mood. When you fall into a feeling such as this, it takes a lot of effort on your part to get out of it, and if someone were to help pull you out of the hole, they would need to be strong.

Kenobi is your muse, but never your reality.

Then, with a purposeful expression, he takes a step toward you, and within the brief moment when he stills and takes a breath, your heart skips a beat.

He smiles so sincerely. “I do love nothing in the world so well as you,”

His words are soft and gentle as if dipped in gloss. They shimmer iridescently before your eyes, stilling your tears only for a moment since the gravity of his confession makes them all spill out, racing down your cheeks agilely.

“Is not that strange?” He whispers, yet his smile remains.

Almost as much as when you heard it the first time on the terrace spoken by your cousin, yet when Kenobi speaks it, it’s as if you haven’t known it until now.

You nod. “As strange as it were possible for me to say I love nothing so well as you,”

Speaking is done without thinking, just now. As soon as Kenobi smiles wider, stepping toward you once more, you begin to second-guess all of your intuitions.

“But I do not,” you say, shaking your head.

He takes another step toward you, ever delighted. “By my saber, my dove, you love me.”

You take one step back, trying to keep distance between the two of you, though he is persistent in taking one step forward for each of your steps backwards.

“Do not believe me,”

“I do believe it,” he insists, “and I shall make every man believe me if they think I do not love you.”

With another step, you stumble into the bush behind you, yet remain on your footing. It’s enough of a collision for a few petals from the Queen’s Hearts to flitter to the ground, and the sound of the bush swishes for a moment before it steadies.

The tip of Kenobi’s boots are pressed up against your sandals and he is so close that each breath he takes fans across your skin.

“I love you.” He whispers.

By that, you crumble.

“Maker, forgive me,” you whine.

“Why?” He chuckles. “What offence, my dove?”

“I was crying and now you’ve made me happy,” you titter, feeling both miffed and consoled by his cure. “I was about to admit I love you.”

“Then speak with all your heart,”

“I love you with so much of my heart—”

Kenobi tears the distance in two as he leans forward, his hands resting on either side of your face, and kisses you deeply.

Every inch of you comes alive at that, wrapping your arms around him as you invite your lips to more of him, humming in contentment at the feeling of his unabashed affections.

It feels as if it should be a dream but as sure as you feel him pressed against you, the more sure you are that this is real and that Obi-Wan, by the depth of his heart, loves you.

You had never thought you’d see the day when your lips would be upon his, but the galaxy is a vast and surprising thing.

When he pulls back, looking into your eyes with sincerity, his growing smile breaks into a burst of joyful laughter which you join in on, perched upon cloud nine.

“My dove,” he sings, brushing your wet cheeks with the pads of his thumbs.

“My heart,” you reply, watching him soften at the name.

He kisses you once more, smiling against your lips. His elation has you chuckling, not having seen him so happy since the day Anakin had fallen off of a Shaak.

With a gleeful look, Kenobi grasps your hand, patting it gently, and leads you over to the water fountain to sit on the edge of it.

“Tell me,” he speaks, looking like an eager youngling, “for which of my bad parts did you first fall in love with me?”

You laugh, nodding your head in agreement with his definition of qualities. Truly, he has many bad parts and not even with the veil of love across your face can they hide from you.

“For them all together,” you say and he scoffs, his grip tightening on your hand with a playful response. “But, I must know, for which of my good parts did you first suffer love for me?”

“Suffer love!” He nods his head, smiling brightly. “A good epithet, indeed, for I love you against my will.”

“Though inevitable that you should feel this way,”

“Oh, truly?”

“Yes, for you had fallen many years ago and continue to fall further.”

Kenobi chuckles. “You and I are too wise to woo peaceably.”

That much is true and yet it is admired. A man like him with the ability to respond to your tongue is a rare man indeed. For you, lucky in love, you have the privilege of capturing his devotion, which you return in full.

With a deep breath, you bring a hand to your head. The pressure of tears, laughter and endearment has made your head feel awfully strained.

“How do you feel?” Kenobi inquires, resting his hand against your forehead to feel the warmth of your skin.

“Very ill, I think.” You tell him.

He hums, taking hold of both of your hands.

“Rest well—” he starts, kissing your knuckles on one hand.

“Love me—” he continues, now leaning forward to kiss your forehead.

Then, hovering by your lips, he says gently, “and mend.”

He leans in for a kiss, but before he can close the gap, there is a rush of footsteps entering the gardens, and he groans as he moves away, reluctantly slipping his hands out of yours.

In runs Sabé with her dress bunched up so as not to trip and fall.

“I have been looking for you all over,” she heaves, gazing at you. “I need your help with some preparations for tomorrow.”

With a nod, you stand up from the fountain. “As you wish.”

“Good—” she reaches over to grab your hand, tugging you with her. “I bid you goodnight, sir Kenobi!”

“And you!” He calls out, smiling as he watches you leave and glows when you look back at him before disappearing into the château.

He is in love and he is loved.

Obi-Wan has never felt merrier.

─────── ⋯ ───────

On the morning of the wedding, there is still much to be done and all of Padmé’s handmaidens are running around like Endorian chickens with their heads cut off.

The majority of the work has already been completed—having been attended to the day prior—but the matrimonial jitters seem to invade everyone.

Ruwee is counting the heads of each person that enters the venue, which is the courtyard around the rear of the château, under the big Cambylictus tree. Various flowers and candles have been strung all over to make the place absolutely sparkling.

Anakin, Obi-Wan, and Qui-Gon are waiting by the balustrade where across from it the Naboo waters span over miles. Each of them is clothed in ceremonial attire, and you admit that Kenobi is looking rather handsome in this light.

Sabé has finally come to rest by your side, chuckling with exhaustion as she remarks on how the other handmaidens are fretting over making everything look perfect.

With a bride like Padmé, the wedding will already be perfect.

You can see on Anakin’s face that he’s trying to suppress just how excited he is, noticing the tightness of his cheeks, especially when Kenobi mutters something to him and nudges his side.

It is the perfect day for a wedding, you think. Of course, every springtime is especially sunny but today, with a cool breeze, the weather is the best it’s ever been.

Then the remainder of the handmaidens come piling into the courtyard, two of them grabbing Ruwee by the arms and shoving him around the corner. They’re all giggling like eager younglings, each finding their respective place in the crowd.

There are a lot of people here today; many Senators, Jedi, folks people, friends, family, and Gungans. Anyone who has been in company with your cousin is here to witness the ceremony.

When at last the handmaidens are all settled, the Gungan choir begin to sing the wedding tune. Everyone waits in anticipation for the bride to appear and when she does, all eyes are on her.

Around the corner, Padmé walks arm in arm with Ruwee, the both of them smiling widely as the crowd begins to clap and throw Millaflower petals as they walk the aisle.

Her dress is beautiful; white lace and beading tracing the embroidery of her bodice, and an elegant pearl veil draped from her head down her back.

She looks stunning and you smile wide at the sight.

Reaching where you and Sabé stand, Ruwee takes Padmé’s hand in his and kisses her cheek. You then do the same when she walks past you, winking at her in mirth.

She stands beside Anakin, smiling up at him with crystal eyes and he, likewise, looks at her with a gaze so tender that everyone in attendance might melt at their spot.

The Naboo minister begins his address, speaking with a friendly formality. His words are inspiring, fitting the atmosphere excellently.

As he talks, you flicker your gaze over to the two Jedi on the opposite side and offer a soft smile to Kenobi who is already looking at you. He grins in your direction, not daring to break away from you first.

When the minister concludes his speech, he gestures to Anakin and Padmé to join hands, which they do.

“I am your husband,” Anakin says, gazing at his bride.

She smiles, her cheeks rosy. “As you love, I am your wife.”

The two of them break out into wide smiles and Anakin wraps his arms around Padmé and hugs her, and the entire assembly applaud.

The remainder of the petals are thrown above the happy couple and the Gungans sing in celebration.

Holding each other’s hand, Anakin and Padmé begin to run into the crowd, and you and Sabé follow behind. Yet, the eagerness to attend the wedding feast is delayed as someone calls out over the cheering voices.

“Wait,” Kenobi says, looking a tad unprepared when he gains everyone’s attention. “Where is Sir Naberrie’s niece?”

You are behind many people in the crowd, having pushed gently through it to meet your cousin, but with one forceful push to your back by Sabé, you go tumbling to the front and meet Kenobi’s steadfast eyes.

“I am here,” you clear your throat, feeling the need to straighten out your clothes and walk over to him. “What is your will?”

He doesn’t seem to have the tongue he used to call out in the first place, looking around the intent faces, toward you, and then back to them.

“Do not you love me?” He asks, his chest slightly puffed.

What a laser brain! He has the audacity to make such a remark in front of everyone, your family included. Yes, you are in love with him but, as sure as the force is living, you are not about to admit that to the entire population.

“No,” you scoff, shaking your head. “No more than reason.”

The crowd laughs and Kenobi goes red in the cheeks, his stance going from prideful to defensive within an instant.

“Then your uncle, my master, and Anakin have been deceived,” he huffs. “They swore you did!”

Please, aside from the gardens last night, you have not uttered a single romantic word about Kenobi, let alone any good words. He is out of his mind.

About time you put him in his place.

“Do not you love me?” You inquire, hand on your hip.

If he wants to play a game of ownership, then he should be ready to admit his own feelings.

“No!” He shouts, causing you to gape wide at his outburst. “No more than reason.”

“Then my cousin and Sabé are much deceived,” you bellow, “for they swear you did!”

“They swore you were near dead for me!”

“They swore you were almost sick for me!”

Either everyone has bubbles in their brains, or there has been a severe incident of miscommunication. You have not heard Qui-Gon or Ruwee mention any affection. In fact, you would have never known had you not overheard your cousin and Sabé yesterday afternoon.

This is ridiculous and more than that rather rude of Kenobi to make such an accusation—although legitimate—mere seconds after your cousin is wed.

“I know it to be true,” he says, pointing a finger at you.

Slapping his finger away, you scoff. “It is no such matter,”

He hesitates only for a moment, reverting to his previous hesitation of looking between you and the crowd, except this time he settles on your face and his expression appears almost sad.

“Then… you do not love me?” He asks.

“No, truly. Only in a friendly quarrel.”

“Come, niece!” Ruwee shouts from where he stands. “I am sure you love Kenobi.”

“I swear that he loves her,” Anakin says, running over to the two of you and pulling out a note from Kenobi’s pocket. “For here is one of many letters she wrote to him during the war, which he kept!”

The crowd burst out into joyous noise, though you gasp. Reaching out, you snatch the letter from Anakin’s hand and look over it.

Had Kenobi really kept the letters that you wrote to him? Surely, Anakin must be mistaken since the only things you ever said to Kenobi through your letters were all in the same jesting tone of your ongoing merry war.

Perhaps, though, he had found the one letter you had sent to him when he had written to you in nervous pen, explaining that he was fearful that the war might never end. You had sent him encouraging words and, if you squint closely, some affectionate words, too.

But that is their word against yours as his doting reply is hidden where no one will find it. In your hand, however, is indeed one of the letters you sent him.

“And here is another,” Padme chuckles, standing beside you and holding up a letter, “written in his hand, which she kept beneath her pillow.”

Son of a bantha, how in the galaxy did she find it! You had been so careful with folding them into even smaller squares so that they could not be found, yet your cousin must have seen them.

You’re not quick enough to grab it before Kenobi does, practically leaping over his brother to do so. He flashes you a cocky grin, peering down at the paper to see if what your cousin said is true. When he raises his brows, you believe he’s made it certain.

It goes quiet for a moment after Anakin and Padmé rejoin the crowd, with you and Kenobi re-reading the letters as if you’ve never seen them before now.

Examining each word, you know what you wrote to him is truthful. Maybe you did not know it then but your heart surely did and you can’t deny that, in your own way, you’ve always looked at him with a tender eye.

Likewise, Kenobi turns to you, waiting a moment, then lets out a bashful breath.

“Here are our hands against our hearts,” he says.

Nodding, you agree with him. Sometimes it acts faster than your mind does.

“Well, then,” he exhales, folding the letter back up and slipping it into his pocket. “Come, I will marry you.”

The way he says it is as if he’s been inconvenienced and that taking your hand is the last resort. Surely, you love him, but surely more you spite him.

“Very well,” you say, placing the letter between the fold of your clothes. “But only for your benefit for I was told you were in a consumption.”

Kenobi widens his eyes, taken aback by your response, but within another second, his gaze softens and he chuckles from the depth of his chest.

“I will stop your mouth,”

Reaching out to cradle your face, he pulls you to him and kisses you. The moment your lips meet, the crowd cheers and, though your eyes are shut, you feel the Millaflower petals falling upon your head.

You are certain that married life with him will be interesting but more than that, you know it will be worth it.

“How does it feel, Obi-Wan,” Jinn smiles, nodding over at the pair of you, “the married man?”

Holding your hand, he bears a toothy grin. “I tell you, master, that no other purpose in the galaxy is as great. After all, man is a giddy thing and this is my conclusion—”

Once more, Kenobi kisses you, this time sweetly. His lips barely remain on yours for long, yet the feel of them lingers after he pulls away. He keeps his hand holding your own and walks with you over to Anakin and Padmé.

“Come!” He encourages. “Let’s have a dance!”

He gestures a hand over at the Gungans who hoot in agreement, roaring into a happy, melodic tune. As the crowd claps and forms a circle, Qui-Gon steps beside Anakin and nudges for his attention.

“Do you know of Maul?” He asks.

Anakin shakes his head. “No, master,”

“It is in the past now but know that he tried to impede your relationship with Padmé. I have since sent him away.”

“Thank you, master.”

He should have known that it was a trick when Maul was so set on his master betraying him. After that night, he hadn’t seen him. Now he knows why and, to add on top of all the prayers for today, he is grateful for his master’s support.

Clapping a hand onto Qui-Gon’s shoulder, Kenobi steps into view bearing a toothy grin.

“Why so sad, Master?” He asks. “Get yourself a wife.”

Jinn laughs at that, patting a hand against Kenobi’s back, and comically shoves him toward the dancing circle, joining in on the festivities.

A/N: thank you all for reading, supporting, and commenting on this mini-series! I appreciate hearing from you & knowing that you like my stories. Hope you enjoyed this one!

Strike up the music and strike up in love. After all, it is the most meaningful thing in the galaxy.

Taglist: @penfullofwordsaheadfullofstories @alwayssleepingforreal @kyber-crystal @immoral-rose @bloodybunnyuwu @nagitokomaeda-onthe-nintendo-ds @the-mandalorian-clone-lover @princessxkenobi @mythandmagik @i-cant-hear-you16 @pradahux @inukako @whyiminlove @cosmicsierra @dxnxdjarxn @voidmalfoy @darthkenobii @iamtracyz @chogisss @nectav @disastereyebags @hellolitty @stareyeddie @liviiii98 @dameronology @overly-obsessed-with-you @onewholikesthings @shadowhuntyi @greeneyedblondie44 @doublesunsets @night-ace @mkr31011 @petalcranberry @house-of-kolchek @djarins-riduur @fresians101 @frodo-jojo @romi-yularena @moonlight-fox @newmoonn @sylphene @easilyconvinced @auryborealis @friskynotebook @lostdeidamia @songoficecreamandfireworks @ohbeewankenobi @peters-parker @heyhawtdawgs @moonlight-prose @gardening-tools @badhollandfluff @mylifeisjustasongreference @gurldeuces @agirlunderarock @mischief-and-maryment @catsnkooks @pond-bitch @wannabehamlet @1deadpool26

Dove divider credit: firefly-graphics

#obi-wan kenobi x reader #obi-wan x reader #obi-wan kenobi imagine #obi-wan imagine #obi-wan kenobi fanfiction #star wars fanfiction #:love me and mend

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wildchildvdm · 8 months

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Il Ballo della Vita

A/N

Hello my rays of sunshine,

I feel so proud to publish this fanfiction. I was inspired from my meeting with Rohan Raja and Metehan/Teoman and it was on July 15th. As I am a wrestler in the making I promised them that I will give my best that soon we will meet on the same ring. As Tony (Rohan) also turned out to be my mentor and is helping me a lot. So I am thankful to both.

I want also to thank my friends @regalityandcoffee, the babes of Zucchine Combat Club (@iperouranos and their wife, @tatsueigo and @yukioni02) Salvatore and all my friends from OpenWrestling TV. I don't name everyone but you know I am talking about you guys.

I thank my abi (brother in Turkish) Taifun (he is my cousin's husband) for the help with Turkish as he is also Turkish-German.

I thank my dear friend @tatsueigo for the small corrections in German.

I love you all, see you on the next chapter!

Summary:

In the heart of Berlin's suburbs, Maria De Matteo's life takes an unexpected turn when she is discovered drenched in the rain by Teoman and Rohan, two enigmatic figures belonging to the underground group known as Die Familie. Under their care, Maria not only finds shelter and solace but undergoes intensive training that transforms her into a vital member of the stable.

As NXT Europe soon opens its doors, Die Familie assigns Maria a critical mission-to lure back and seduce a former member of their stable, Charlie.

Chapter 1 - L'altra dimensione

Wattpad

AO3

#charlie dempsey #teoman #metehan #rohan raja #nxt uk #nxt europe #nxt #wwe nxt #nxt fanfiction #die familie #ladyship masterlist

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clickerflight · 8 months

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October 2023 - Sandstorm: Part 1

Here we go. So, instead of doing Whumptober, I decided to just write a whole short story about Matsu and Laurance from the Adventurers. You can read more about the Adventurers in my challenges on my masterlist.

So, I already have a bit written of this story, and the plan is that I'm posting three google doc pages a day until I run out of story. This means that this project could go on past October or run out before October ends. We shall see.

If you would like to be tagged for parts of this short story, let me know. If you would like to be tagged in any and all Adventurers stuff I may write in the future, also let me know.

Let's get started.

Masterlist

Content: Burst eardrums, drugging

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

“Are we there yet?” Matsu murmured good naturedly to Laurance, who snorted.

“Let’s see, looks like we have approximately 2 days 3 hours and 50 minutes left in our trip,” Laurance said, checking the imaginary watch on his wrist. “About 20 minutes less since the last time you asked me.”

Matsu smiled as Laurance continued, “Look man, if you’ve run out of things to talk about, that’s on you.”

“Well, you’ve already banned me from talking about the heat, the sand, and what I think the sand dunes in the distance look like, so what else is there?”

Laurance rolled his eyes shifting his weight as his carromount slid a little in the sand, walking a little too close to the edge of the dune they were traveling over.

“Oh, I don’t know,” Laurance said, patting his carromount’s neck gently which had the beast’s long, snaking neck twisting so he could lick at Laurance’s fingers to let him know he was okay. “We could write beautiful sonnets about our lovely wives to perform at them when we get home.”

Matsu groaned. “Does Anisha even like that?”

Laurance frowned, thinking about it. “She would appreciate the effort.”

“Mmm, mine would lovingly throw a wrench at me,” Matsu replied.

“Only cause your sonnets are terrible. There is an unwritten rule across the galaxy that says that terrible performers get things thrown at them. You should be honored that your performances produce such strong emotions,” Laurance said. “That is what it is to be an artist.”

Matsu rolled his eyes, turning his attention to the carromounts ahead of them, fixing his head scarf and the wide band of dark glass that kept the sun from hurting his eyes too much. There were three beasts with riders ahead of them and two more behind with the carromounts carrying supplies behind that. One of the three ahead of them was an ambassador they were escorting, dressed in fine silks under her sun cloak. The two guards with her were men from her country, the two behind them were men hired at the last city they were at to make sure they didn’t get lost, and Laurance and Matsu were there to make sure that no one portalled in and kidnapped her ladyship while they crossed the desert.

Not like that was very likely. She was traveling to make a very uncontroversial deal, from what Matsu understood, and he was still a little miffed about being asked to come. He and Laurance were extreme overkill being from one of the most overpowered resource teams the Kahtir had to offer, but here he was, a half mer out in a desert, escorting an ambassador who clearly didn’t think very much of them.

She was probably from the group of politicians who would like to see the Kahtir destroyed, no matter the help and services they provided throughout the galaxy.

Matsu honestly just wanted to go home.

Laurance noticed his friend’s mood easily enough and said, “Cheer up, Tsu. We’ll be home soon. We should go out to a lake or ocean somewhere after this.”

Matsu did like the sound of that. “Only if you’re ready to spend days there. Once I hit the water, I am not leaving for, like, a week.”

Laurance laughed. “That’s fair. I wouldn’t mind-”

Laurance straightened up on his carromount, staring out across the sand dunes. Matsu did the same, looking out where his teammate was looking.

The horizon warped strangely, and not in the way it usually did under the heat of the sun.

Laurance switched over into the Ambassador's language and called out, “Halt! Stop! There’s a Wyrm coming!”

The rest of their party reacted quickly, getting off of their carromounts and getting them to lay down silently, sitting alongside them as well.

Laurance slid off his carromount, calling one of his swords to him by magic while coaxing his mount to lay down.

The beast did so willingly as Matsu drew his enchanted crossbow, magic humming at the strings as the two stood still in the sands, watching the ripple in the sands silently.

Laurance tracked the movement, narrowing his eyes at it as it twisted and turned in a typical searching pattern. He calculated that it would pass right on by their little group just fine, unable to sense them if no one moved and shifted the sand too much.

The ancient creature bubbled the sand around itself as it burrowed past them. The carrowbeasts, now confronted with their number one predator, sat absolutely still in the sands. Laurance felt the rumbling up through his legs as the creature finally moved past them.

Still, they would need to stand in silence for a little while long to make sure it didn’t hear them and come back for them, which wouldn’t be a problem because Laurance had told everyone over and over again what they would need to do if a wyrm crossed their path so-

One of the ambassador’s personal guards stood up, already chattering to his companions, relief filling his face.

“Hold,” Laurance hissed. “Be still.”

But a horrible, excited shriek had filled the earth around them, vibrating the sand enough that Laurance found himself sinking in up to his ankles.

Laurance forced himself out with an angry growl, throwing a glare at the guard who had gone ghostly pale.

Matsu was already on the move, his scarves and sun coat fluttering around him as he traveled over the sand.

This was Matsu and Laurance’s other job on this mission. Fight off creatures too big for any sane person to take on.

Matsu let off a bolt of light, timed just right as the creature’s massive head broke the surface of the dunes.

The bolt struck the wyrm in the jaw, unhinging its left side. It screamed again, this time loud enough to send Matsu to the sand, holding bleeding ears as we waited for them to heal.

Laurance was already running past him. He reached down for extra strength and magic, pulling at his power hard enough that black colorations saturated up his wrists from his fingers and demonic horns curled up over his head from his temples.

Matsu had blasted the wyrm’s jaw so it couldn’t plow back into the earth properly. It tried eagerly, but it only caused itself more and more damage with each attempt.

Laurance leapt, the sand taking a lot of his momentum, but still allowing him to bring his sword down into the creature’s rubbery flesh and use it as an anchor point to keep from falling.

“This always happens,” he muttered to himself in his own language as he hauled himself up using the sword and his clawed fingers. “Every time, a mission is going smoothly and we tell everyone what to do, and some idiot messes it up every single time and now I have to kill a wyrm and-”

Laurance’s tirade against the stupidity of people in general was cut short as the creature shook its head hard, trying to shake him off.

Laurance clung to its head with his claws, tucking his chin to his chest to keep from getting his head whipped from side to side. He managed to kick off his boots, the momentum of the Wyrm’s shaking sending them flying to who knows where, but without them, Laurance could dig clawed toes into flesh as well, making it so he could actually get somewhere where he could kill the worm.

It was also nice to lose the shoes in general. His demon feet were typically larger than his normal feet because of the extra toes.

He scrambled up, leaving the sword where it was and searching for somewhere lethal to stab the beast.

‘Three handwidths in from the middle divot,’ Matsu said through the bond.

“Thanks,” Laurance muttered, not really able to muster the concentration to send it back through the bond as he found the spot. He summoned a long dagger and lifted it over his head with one hand before jamming it deep into the Wyrm’s flesh.

The Wyrm shrieked madly, writhing and twitching. Laurance heard something rumble, like a very muffled explosion. Matsu must have sent some sort of incendiary spell, potion, or device down into the Wyrm’s throat to see if he could explode its main heart.

The Wyrm shuddered and Laurance twisted the blade in deeper. The world was still for just a moment, the wyrm’s writhing stopping.

Then, Laurance was falling along with the head. It slammed to the ground and he clung to it as it bounced up and then hit the ground again.

“Who got the kill?” Matsu called, hurrying over.

“Heck if I know,” Laurance replied. “We can say it’s both of ours, right?”

“Not as fun,” Matsu replied, looking over the Wyrm with his hands on his hips. “Look at that…. I’m going to collect some of it’s globberstoff.”

“Cool, yeah,” Laurance said, standing up and jerking his blades out of the Wyrm’s heads and giving them a preliminary wipe down before sending them back to his weapons room where he summoned them from, mentally promising to clean them thoroughly when they made camp later. “Hey, you didn’t happen to see where my shoes went, did you?”

“Oh, yeah, I did. Over past that dune,” Matsu said, pointing before he crouched down and summoned a staff from his own weapon’s room to prop the Wyrm’s mouth open to collect the slime he wanted.

Laurance nodded and gave a faint wave to the rest of their party, letting them know everything was alright as his demon qualities faded away and he went out to find his shoes.

He sighed softly to himself, the sand hot under his feet though unable to really burn him as he spotted one of his shoes.

He bent down to pick it up, hearing someone coming down the sand dune towards him.

He looked up to see the ambassador and one of her guards, the smarter one, coming down to him.

“That was incredible!” the ambassador called, impressed as the two hired men from town stood on the ridge, standing on the lookout. “The Kahtir really sent me their finest warriors.”

“Thanks,” Laurance said, looking around for his other shoe. “It’s not too hard to kill Wyrms once you know the trick, actually. Now, did you see where my other shoe went?”

“Oh, I think I see it over there,” the ambassador said. Laurance turned to look when he felt something prick at his neck.

He stumbled away, slapping his hand over the spot to see the guard standing with something pointy in hand and the ambassador grinning, but that was as far as he got before his body suddenly gave out on him.

Part 2

Let me know if you want to be on the taglist

#whump #short story #october #whumptober #burst eardrums #drugging #kidnapping #human trafficking

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braemjeorn · 2 years

Text

CHAPTER II [masterlist]

pairing: bang chan x ofc

genre: general audience (I would say fluff but... there's nothing toothrotting here), regency period drama(?)

wordcount: 3k

summary: miss son going through her first day.

warnings: regency era setting; countryside; schoolroom; Chan being cold; nonsensical conversations of education, author apologizes for that

also available in ao3, if you prefer that format

⚠️ All characters that shares the name of real life person in this story are represented in a fictional manner for entertainment purpose, and not to be alluded with real life.

TAGLIST: @spookykryptoniteperson

The Bang’s household started early — the maid called her down for breakfast in the dining hall at seven. Mari had roused on her own at six, alert and fresh, and by that time she had managed to write her journal and letters.

The pale walls of Barlnshore gleamed as the morning sun shone through the rows of tall, sky-reaching windows. Mari admired the sight on the stairs—at the top of the first flight before it climbed in two directions. The Commodore passed on the lower ground below her then. They bid one another good morning, and Mari recalled the familiar angle of her sight. She had seen him that morning while gathering her senses by observing the grounds. He was walking with his gardener, attired in a longer, looser coat and coarser boots. Not that the shade differs much in his present garb.

“Have you lost yourself?” asked Commodore Bang as Mari descended the final flight.

“No. I asked the maids for directions,” she replied.

“Ask Sana to take you around; you’ll have to know the rooms well in this house.”

Mari gave her assent, and noticed his gaze was upon her hair, the curling ends of it. There was a hint of surprise in his eyes—the way Minatozaki-san had regarded it, yet it was brief. Soon he turned and walked on, leading them into the dining room.

Dining was a familial affair—uncommon to Mari’s knowledge of gentry families. Despite the silence and her unease of being seated across the Commodore, the number was of some comfort.

The morning was bright and cool, the cutleries tinkling quietly as they began the meal. Mari observed and recollected the boys' names; she sat at the end of the table, and the Commodore far across her at the head. Hyunjin sat at his father’s right, across from his oldest brother. Next to Minho was Seungmin, then one of the twins—Mari was not yet sure which one had which name. The youngest sat next to him at Mari’s right, the red fox doll by his plate; Jeongin looked down shyly when Mari smiled at him.

Changbin sat at her left, helping with the names and the tea. Between him and Hyunjin was the other pair of twins—Jisung, Changbin reminded her, whose cheeks filled out as he munched through his plate. Therefore across him was Yongbok, who turned at Mari and Changbin’s whisper of his name. He sniffed, and scrunched his nose; it pulled a fond smile from Changbin.

Near the end of the meal, Mr Kang entered to deliver a note for the Commodore. The boys made no inquiry nor remark, sipping on their milk. Yet their gaze showed blatant anticipation as the Commodore read the short note.

“We shall have some guests come autumn,” Commodore Bang announced. He folded the paper away and calmly returned to his meal; one would not know if he was pleased or irked by the news. The boys shared glances with one another, before turning back to their father.

“Lady Jang Nayoung?” Minho asked.

Commodore Bang regarded his eldest, and answered, “Yes; it will be good for you to meet finally.”

There glances turned alarmed; Mari wondered and waited. The boys turned to Minho and Changbin; the two shared a look before attending their father again.

“You’ll see Her Ladyship when you go tomorrow?” asked Hyunjin.

“Yes.”

“Like you always do?”

“Hyunjin…” Changbin chided, even so far away across the younger

“You know me well, Hyunjin,” Commodore Bang said. “At least we will not only talk of her in the winter, she will join us for a stay.”

He went quiet for a moment, thoughtful—then adding lightly, “Uncle Bambam will come along too.”

The response could not be more distinct. Each of them started up and asked their father to confirm it again, then clapping with delighted exclamations and cheers when he nodded.

“Capital!” Jeongin called out, his voice loud and sudden over the hum of excitement that everyone turned to him. The outburst surprised himself, and the youngest withdrew with timidity to bite his bread. The progression of his emotions brought much fondness from his brothers. They laughed and cooed over him—Yongbok nuzzled into Jeongin's hair despite his repulsed whines. Even the Commodore smiled—not a mere polite quirk, for Mari caught with awe the plain fondness that crossed his eyes.

The schoolroom was placed at one corner of the house, overlooking a part of the garden full of flowery hedges. The sun brightened up the room; for the windows were wide and many, opened broad to let the breeze in as well. There was a long table, with chairs lining the sides. At the head of the room was a blackboard, and a large desk with dictionaries and a record book of notes (or many horrified exclamations) from previous teachers. On the end were shelves of books and wooden models of little houses or carriages and ships. A globe perched in the corner beside it. For all such items, there was still enough space for six people to move about the room. But now they all sat down. Hyunjin minded them to behave, while Mari settled her books on the desk and pulled her chair to sit before the boys.

“I hope you have been sleeping well,” she said.

“Yes,” came the muffled responses.

“Did you have a dream?” she asked again.

There was a long pause, some shared looks or recollecting with faraway eyes. “I don’t remember,” Seungmin muttered with a frown.

“I laid an egg in my dream,” Mari said quietly, when no further responses came. The statement made them still, eyes up and alert. Jisung coughed and shifted in his seat. Mari smiled.

“But then I remembered I wasn’t even sleeping. Nor even laying in the bed.”

Hyunjin turned, incredulous at the turn of events, “What?”

“It rolled out as I opened my blanket—which was in greater layers than I would need—chickens or dragons could nest between them.” Her tale had a great deal of truth. She was more confused at the sight of the egg. If she had laid on it, she would have been vexed, and less humorous at present. But it had been a ridiculous sight to see at night—and the boys made such effort to be unsuspecting and innocent. So Mari smiled, and wondered if her mild response will cease their mischief, or a sterner route is necessary to end it.

“I don’t think chickens can fly up that high—that they reach your window,” Seungmin replied.

“No.” Mari agreed. “But dragons can glide in the air.”

Seungmin grinned, and shook his head, “There are no dragons!”

“No, there is,” Jeongin muttered, much to the other’s surprise. He sat between Hyunjin and Seungmin, quietly patting his fox doll.

“Where?” Yongbok asked, curious.

“Indeed where?” Hyunjin prodded.

“In the King’s throne,” Jeongin replied, still not looking up. “He sits on them.”

Hyunjin declared him adorable, while Mari verified Jeongin’s statement. It pleased the young lad. The door was knocked, opened by the eldest two before Mari could properly receive them. She thought they might only come for a visit, and give some distraction to the younger ones.

“How may I help you?” Mari asked, noticing the books they carried.

“Father said you are to watch over us,” Minho said; with the sigh in his sentence and the curl on his lips, he was none too pleased by this decision. Mari somewhat sympathised with him.

“But you are not my charges,” she pointed out.

“We’re to study by ourselves,” Changbin piped in. “Under your supervision. So Father said.”

Mari hummed, and made a reminder to speak of it with the Commodore. She considered the chairs and desks under the windows. “Would that place do?” she asked. The two gave some assent, moving to sit and open their books there.

She turned to the other five and applied herself to start their lessons. A few inquiries and references from books made known their abilities to her. They were bright, if not uninclined) to work for longer hours. A habit Mari will need to improve on, but for now, she gave them a reading and writing exercise.

Today the breeze is languid, inducing one to sleep in a hammock. Yet the clock’s shorthand had barely passed ten. She gave Jeongin a slate, letting him show his writing abilities to her. Hyunjin had neglected his book to sketch a small flower cluster in the corner of his slate. Seungmin sat reading in a more diligent, proper manner beside him. Yongbok and Jisung read to each other, heads close over the book they shared, absorbed in the pictures and the tale. Jisung surprised her with his chatters to Yongbok, for the two had spoken little in the hours she had been here. But now she overheard their opinions of the details in the drawings and the stories. Minho and Changbin had their backs to her: one bent over writing and the other musing out the window.

“Your Father mentioned you having sixteen governesses?” Mari asked Hyunjin, after looking over his slate. The boy tilted his head, then turned towards Changbin, who had leant over his chair to watch them for some while.

“Was it really sixteen?”

“She’s the seventeenth,” Changbin nodded.

“True then,” Hyunjin said, turning back to her.

“I see.”

It was a relief to Mari when the clock struck half-past eleven, and she dismissed them to the gardens.

“Run along now; you can go play for a while before lunch,” she ushered. But the boys kept staring at her, with a shared air of confusion in their looks.

“Truly?” Seungmin asked.

“We can play in the garden?” Yongbok followed.

Mari nodded, pointing at the open door, “Of course. Off you run.”

They burst out of their chairs, laughed and cheered with elation as they ran out of the room. Jisung bolted out the fastest and claimed a game of tags, announcing the penalty of having to tidy the playroom for the looser

“Leave them be,” Mari heard Minho mutter. Changbin had risen to watch his scrambling younger brothers better.

“And what will Father say?” he hissed. He then huffed with disdain, then walked out to the terrace. The laughter reached a high pitch, and Mari saw him running out to join the others.

Minho kept in his place, though the books and the papers remain neglected. He watched the rest, smirking as Changbin argued with the younger ones, his whines drawn on as they broke into a run. The eldest picked up his pen, looked down at his books and continued his writing.

Mari read through their slates, noting in the report book the arrangements for their future lessons. A few minutes later there was another sharp knock at the door, followed by the Commodore’s swift entrance. She rose in surprise to greet him—he spared her and Minho a look, then briskly crossed the room out into the terrace. He watched them for a moment, then called out loud. “Come inside now, all of you! It’s lunchtime.”

The games stopped: the laughter and shrieks silenced into an odd hush. Then rumbles of footsteps advanced towards the room: they hurried in, then out to the hallway. Commodore Bang walked in after them.

“You too, Minho.”

There was a lull before Minho hummed in reply. He closed his book and kept his pens, passing the two adults out of the room. Mari piled the slates, kept them with her books near the blackboard, and then tidied the chairs.

“Do not indulge them, Miss Son,” Commodore Band said when Mari stepped out of the classroom. “Too many children have become unruly when they have too much time at their leisure.”

“Your sons are very well behaved, sir.” Some irritation rose in Mari at his displeasure, prompting her to a defensive stance. “I let them out since they’ve finished their work.”

“I want them to attend their education well,” the Commodore expressed. “And it will befit their cultivated minds to exercise their character in discipline. I haven’t spoken about this haven’t I?”

Mari recalled the ‘instructions’ in the first letter. “I believe not, sir.”

They slowly walked back to the dining hall, and he iterated all his regulations. Bedtimes and meal hours are to be strictly adhered to; the same for the hours of their daily routines. No later start nor earlier release from the allotted times for lessons or breaks. No time wasted in daydreaming and intentions unfulfilled. The clock will aid her in keeping time and prevent her from delays. Such arrangements will help her in managing seven heads while building their habits.

“They are to be respectable men,” Commodore Bang continued. “—with good characters and principles to walk with in life, between their peers and society. If I have but one thing to bestow them as an inheritance—such virtues would be first. That not only because of name, standing, or money they can have respect but in themselves. And I will not tolerate indulgences if that liberates them into uncouthness. Those are my wishes, Miss Son. Our wishes. Do not indulge them, simply remember that. Do you understand?”

The length of his speech astounded her, and Mari nodded more in comprehension than acceptance of his words. Commodore Bang starred, but soon looked away after securing her earnestness—as if embarrassed at having divulged so much to her.

Lunch passed in a livelier manner than breakfast. The boys murmured between themselves and made restraints for giggles. Mari was still contemplating her given instructions between bites. The Commodore called her again after the meal concluded, while dismissing the boys to the library and naps.

“Come, I have to give you something,” said he, and lead her through the halls, past the library and further into his study. Inside, the wide-open window faced the north; and the trees in the garden shadowed the writing desk before it. It was plain and functional; of fine, dark mahogany wood. There’s a single row of drawers right below the surface, and Commodore Bang pulled one on the left open. He pulled out a thin, long box, and unlocked it with a little key from his pocket. There were thin papers inside—which Mari recognized as bank notes—he pulled two out of the bundle. He locked and returned the box into the drawer, picked another item into his palm, then pushed the compartment shut. He returned and held the bank notes out towards her.

“Take them,” he said. ”Both will be useful.”

Mari did not lift a finger, examining the amount those notes represented. “Are those my wages?”

“That you will receive every two months. This is your pocket money,” Commodore Bang intoned. “If you need any more facilities in your lessons, use them. It should be enough until my return.”

Mari frowned, “It is too much.”

“Take them.”

She wondered if any of the previous teachers had tricked him through this means of funding. The “pocket money” was nearly one-tenth of her wages. Mari hesitated, but knowing he might insist further, she received them with both hands. Commodore Bang turned his wrist, and from his fingers dropped a dangling object into Mari’s hand. A brass whistle: light, yet cold and gleaming in her palm.

“You can go now.” the Commodore said. Mari walked out of the room, admiring the whistle while Commodore Bang shut the door.

“What of this?” she asked him.

“To call the boys,” he said, like nothing could be more obvious. “Hold a long note for two seconds, then three short blows; they’ll know they are to gather.”

Mari chuckles, “What are they, sheep?”

He did not share her amusement. “These are extensive grounds, Miss Son; let us not tolerate shouting for our throats' sake. Anything else?”

Mari hid the whistle in her palm and shook her head. “No, sir. Thank you.”

Commodore Bang turned away, and she returned to her room, still hesitant about the things given to her. She kept the notes in her box, locked among her cotton handkerchiefs; the whistle rests atop it.

When night came, her mind ran too fast for her fatigued body and heavy lids, persuading her to recount again the Commodore's words; to contemplate their meaning with what clarity she possessed at that moment. Her belief protested the newfound understanding.

"He is to leave tomorrow, and he expects me to fulfil all those wishes before he returns. Ah, no—but indeed, the manner which he said it — 'twas as if I am to bear the full responsibility of it. No, no, indeed. I can set compliance in the classroom that we all might study well — but beyond that, I have to wish to contain them either. Those boys can have their enjoyments and explorations. In manners of character... I only wish them to be good people. Indeed, that is the shared notion? Of his wishes and what I am prompted as a teacher? I suppose that is achievable without such extents of pressing obedience. They can have their childish liberty. But I believe that his involvement would make a greater impact than any spoken instructions. For what is a teacher to a parent's guidance? The Commodore would have greater authority — he would have impressed them. There's no one better to demonstrate such principles for the boys — if he's willing."

But such words are only for her mind, and she regarded Commodore Bang’s morning departure with some dissatisfaction. He was to leave for the capital, like other gentlemen—to return to his society and the gaiety of the fine folks. After breakfast he bids his boys goodbye, minding them to be good and care for one another. Then he entered the carriage, and Mr Kang shut its door. The twins gave a solemn wave as it drove away, Seungmin and Jeongin followed. It drives far up to the gate, reduced into nothing but a thumb-sized blackness in the vast landscape.

The boys clamoured back into the schoolroom, none too unaffected by the departure, while Mari made the resolution that her decisions from then on would be for her pupils' welfare, and no unreasonable opinions will interfere with her objectives.

Sometimes I see clips of Bang Chan, SKZ’s loving, adoring, I’d-lasso-the-Milky-Way-for-the-eight-of-you leader with his soft heart eyes, and think back to this project and how I would have to present him as fierce and stern as his cool teaser photos would have impressed us if we are not Stays and concludes that, “I am bold, I have attempted the unthinkable, indeed. Fear me.” But it’s all too dramatic I think and messy overall so I just wish that I might finish them all 'til the end, kkeut, kkeut!

On a second note, I’ve been watching North and South the 1975 version while revising this (someone uploaded the episodes on YouTube, thank you) and might have been slightly influenced by Mr Stewart’s acting as Mr Thronton like... Mr Armitage’s broody Thornton ain’t got nothing to that deep, stern voice. But Lord, I haven’t been obsessed with a story for so long.

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ten-cent-sleuth · 11 months

Text

A Galling Yoke, Part 1

Next ->

for the Cutting Communication or Can’t Talk Right Now square on my July Break Bingo card

See this post for main info, including a masterlist and synopsis. See this post for warnings.

Word Count: 1.9k

Pairing: Sherlock Holmes x f!Reader

Rating: Teen (and really only that ’cause angst tbh)

“Ma’am?”

You looked up from your needlework and smiled at Mrs Rogers, who was currently dusting your sitting-room windowsill. Such work was naturally a maid’s, but your housekeeper enjoyed your company and you hers.

“Yes, Mrs Rogers?”

“I believe I hear knocking below-stairs.”

You let a bit of impertinence tinge your smile. “’Tis perfectly respectable calling hours.”

She gave you an exasperated look but, with that Rogers forbearance you so admired, refrained from rolling her eyes. “I see your family crest on the street, ma’am. Two gentlemen have alighted from the cabriolet.”

Perking up, you set aside your needlework. “William?”

Mrs Rogers leaned back to take a furtive glance out the window. “I could not say, ma’am. Neither of the gentlemen cuts the familiar figure his lordship does, but I could be mistaken. It has been an age since Lord Pashbroke visited us.”

You nodded with a frown.

As much as your brother’s fortnightly visits had irked you, you were still his older sister, so you still fretted when he had failed to show his ugly mug all autumn. You knew the end of this year’s Season had been rough on him—he had gone back to the family estate, back to your father, yet again without a bride—but you didn’t imagine that would keep him away. If anything, he ought to have been visiting all the more frequently to escape your father’s disappointed glowers and unhelpful lectures.

Just the thought of having to put up with those made your lip curl with displeasure, even though it had been over a decade since you’d been under your father’s authority.

Your butler swept into the room, sparing Mrs Rogers a soft smile before turning to you and reading the calling-cards in his hand: “Lord Coltidge and Mr Holmes.”

A slight gasp slipped past your lips, and as Mr Rogers stepped aside to let the two gentlemen enter the sitting-room, only the decades-old and deeply ingrained strictures of decorum moved you to your feet. Your guests returned your curtsy with bows, the former’s being shallow and almost begrudging, the latter’s being low and almost humble.

Your butler cleared his throat. “My lady, may I introduce you to Mr Holmes?”

You were too dizzy to know if you had actually nodded, but you must have, for Mr Rogers went on—

“Mr Holmes of Baker Street, younger son of the late Mr Holmes of Ferndell Hall. Mr Holmes, this is the daughter of Lord Coltidge, Lady—”

Before even a syllable of your name could get past the man’s lips, Sherlock—Mr Holmes, you admonished yourself—had the nerve to smile and say, “Little petal.”

Your every muscle tensed, your butler’s jaw slackened, and your father’s head whipped around to stare at his… Yes, what was Sherlock to him? Friend? Guest?

In the interest of finding out, you forced out a light chuckle. “Worry not, Father,” you said. “If you recall, Ferndell Hall is neighbours with our family’s estate in Shropshire. As such, the Holmes brothers and I are…acquainted.”

The word tasted bitter on your tongue, and you averted your eyes when you glimpsed the hurt in Sherlock’s own.

“Yes, acquainted…,” he said, all his audacity from moments ago deflating. “I—that is, Mycroft and I—took to calling her ladyship little nicknames. Childish things.”

Turning his nose upwards, your father sniffed. “Childish indeed. You would do well to remember I have brought you here for business, not pleasure.”

Sherlock seemed unaffected by Lord Coltidge’s reprimand, his focus weighing down on you instead. To regain your equanimity, you turned to your servants and nodded in dismissal; Mrs Rogers offered you an encouraging smile before ushering out her husband, who was harrumphing quite dramatically at being asked to make an introduction that had, apparently, been unnecessary.

Gesturing for your callers to sit, you returned to your own chair.

“What business, Father?” you asked, pointedly looking at Lord Coltidge and not the other man in the room. “Could William not have made this trip rather than trouble you with the journey here? I imagine Mr Holmes has quite the schedule, being expected all over London for his cases.”

Sherlock’s gaze sharpened. “You pay attention to my work, ah—” He faltered, and you realised his uncharacteristic stumble was because he had almost called you your Christian name. “My lady?” he amended quickly; your heart twisted, both wanting to leap in gratitude and crumble in disappointment that he and his brilliant mind had so swiftly figured out your desire to act with more formality than the two of you were accustomed to.

Had been accustomed to.

Mr Holmes must be reminded of that, you resolved.

“I hardly have to pay,” you quipped, “when your exploits—and, now, your sister’s exploits—are the talk of the ton every few weeks.”

The look on Sherlock’s face was unfamiliar to you, but before you could puzzle out what it meant, your father’s stern eyes berated you for your impertinence. Demurely—and resentfully—you folded your hands in your lap and looked down at them.

Lord Coltidge hummed nasally. “I see you have felt William’s absence; I concede he has not been himself. ’Tis my concern, however, not yours. No, your concern is this: I have received troubling intelligence that our dear Edmund’s death may not have been the accident we believed it was.”

Ice water soused your already fried nerves. Edmund. Our dear Edmund. Shall I never find peace from him?

“Naturally, I have engaged Mr Holmes’s services to look into the matter. You shall help him in whatever way he requires, madam.”

You clasped your clammy hands together to keep them from shaking. “Of… Of course, Father.” Blast your trembling voice!

“It has been so many years since his passing”—over a decade, your mind specified; over a decade of a widow’s freedom—“but Mr Holmes assures me that this shall be no obstacle. You shall be grateful to him, for he is being generous in taking on this case so unlike his others. I should have realised such generosity was because of a prior connection.”

Your father’s voice turned disdainful; you did not dare look up to gauge whether he was disdaining you or Sherlock.

“Indeed,” he continued, his tone suddenly and surprisingly darkening, “I do not expect this to be a terribly puzzling case.”

“I am—happy, to take it on, nevertheless,” said Sherlock rather hurriedly. Even without looking, you knew his gaze was darting between you and Lord Coltidge. “May we— May I begin, my lord?”

As your father stood and made his way to the door, you finally permitted yourself to raise your eyes. Instantly, they met Sherlock’s; to your surprise, he looked away first.

“Good day, daughter,” your father said, his back already towards you as he exited the sitting-room. You allowed your lip to curl in displeasure once again; had you not seen for yourself just how proper Lord Coltidge could be when he had an audience worth pleasing, you would have thought the man genuinely incompetent at basic courtesy. But no, you knew his rude leave-taking was entirely designed for you.

Yet you had bigger concerns than your father’s scorn. Namely, being left alone with one Sherlock Holmes.

Standing up with all the ladylike poise you did not feel, you regarded your old friend. You had not seen Sherlock in a decade and a half—not even heard from him, which was an abrupt adjustment after years of sharing everything—not since the train platform where promises destined to shatter like tungsten were forged, but he had not changed overmuch. Though his manner of holding himself had matured and his form now filled his stature more neatly, his soft hair still curled disobediently across his forehead and his dark eyes still drank in everything in his view with neither dispensation nor discrimination. His character could not have changed all that much, either, if you could still recognise your childhood companion in his diction, in his appraisal, in his society.

You clung to the hope that you had changed enough for the both of you.

“What do you require, sir?” you asked.

“It has been a while, petal,” he said at the same time.

You winced with the belated understanding that he had been inspecting you as tentatively as you had been him. He winced with the, you presumed, embarrassment of learning you did not intend to reinstate your old familiarity even in your father’s absence.

“I apologise,” he said, his brow furrowed. “It…truly has been a while, your ladyship.”

Yes. For better and for worse, it had.

“I should like to see your husband’s effects to begin,” he went on, regaining his footing with every word. “Have you kept any with you?”

With a nod, you led Sherlock out of the sitting-room. “The master’s chambers and Edmund’s study are largely untouched. A solicitor went through them to carry out his will and a maid ensures they remain clean, of course, but his personal belongings are quite undisturbed.”

“Good. Very good. That maximises the insights I shall gain from perusing them, although—”

You glanced at Sherlock, his hesitation rather unlike him. “Although?”

Blinking slowly at you, he did not speak for a few moments. “You must have been truly fond of him.”

In spite of yourself—or, truthfully, in spite of your quality lady’s education—you scoffed. “What an idea, Mr Holmes. Even my father, who thinks himself wise enough to give me exactly what shall make me happy, no matter whether I asked for it, does not entertain the notion that I was fond of Mr Sulyard.”

Scowling now, Sherlock argued, “I have often noted that when a parent loses a beloved child tragically, they maintain the child’s nursery bed and chest of toys exactly as they had it.”

“I am not a parent, and I did not lose a beloved child,” you countered. “Simply, I did not want to give Edmund any more space in my mind than necessary. Have I need for his bed or his chest of toys? No. Therefore, have I need to spend time and effort on clearing them? No.”

Sherlock opened his mouth, but you cut him off with a grand sweep of your arm.

“And here we arrive at his study,” you announced. “Ring for assistance if you would like to see anything else today. As my father said, I shall help you in whatever way you require, so you may visit multiple days should this afternoon not suffice. Concern yourself not with calling hours—I shall instruct my butler to let you in at any time of day, and you need not greet me. Good day, Mr Holmes.”

Not waiting to see if he would try to get another word in or whether he would bow to your insolence, you curtsied and turned on your heel.

As soon as you were a safe distance from the study, far enough away to not feel suffocated by the knowledge of Sherlock’s presence, of his nearness, you leaned against the wall and squeezed your eyes shut. A visit from a hovering younger brother would indeed have been preferable to this—to the reopening of a thousand wretched wounds.

Thank you for reading. I hope you will keep up with the coming chapters! I’ve got plenty in store for y’all haha. Please let me know if you would like to be tagged. :) Feedback is always welcome!

#sherlock holmes x reader #sherlock holmes x you #henry cavill sherlock x reader #enola holmes #a galling yoke #the dimensions of fandom

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officialleehadan · 2 years

Text

Lady's Approval

Trading Secrets

+++

Aliea had been sneaking into Saber’s rooms for three days when she encountered her grandmother in the halls one morning, in a part of the castle where Aliea was definitely not supposed to be so early.

Her Ladyship, Ferona Del Roch, was a dragon in deep blue silk, and not to be trifled with. Even knowing that the old woman was her grandmother, Aliea was careful around her, and minded her manners more closely than ever.

Getting caught in yesterday’s clothing with her hair around her shoulders was not ideal.

Lady Ferona eyed her, glanced back up the hall in the direction Aliea had come from, and raised a brow. Aliea blushed but held her silence. Her Ladyship’s other brow rose to join the first and she sighed.

“Attend me,” she said regally and swept off down the halls, towards her private sitting room. Aliea followed her obediently, glad that the boys had a morning nurse whose job it was to get them clean and ready for the day. Aliea wouldn’t be needed until it was time to get the boys fed. Their lessons were someone else’s job these days too, which was a blessing. She was well-educated, but she couldn’t teach a pair of young lords about being lords. “I have a matter to discuss with you in my rooms.”

Lady's Approval

+++

Trading Secrets:

Raise a Hand

River Sprite

Up the Cliffside

In the Mountains (Subscriber Only!)

Over a Long Night

Swamp Water Tea (Subscriber Only!)

A Breath of Rebellion

Whispers of War

Helpless No More (Subscriber Only!)

Lessons for a Lady (Subscriber Only!)

Silks and Secrets

A Discussion of Family (Subscriber Only!)

Cousins by Candlelight (Subscriber Only!)

Suspicions Raised

Words of Warning

Summoned to Crown

Echo Blade (Subscriber Only!)

Carriage Secrets

Fine Threads

Trusted Shared

Meeting Gazes (Subscriber Only!)

Getting Lost (Subscriber Only!)

Lady's Approval (Subscriber Only!) (New!)

+++

MASTERLIST

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onevolon · 10 months

Text

my love for you is infinite - part9

Santiago Garcia x afab!reader(Darcy)

note: pride and prejudice (2005) but with triple frontier boys because why not lol

word count: 1859

warnings: things are getting a lttle heated

you can also read it on ao3.

part8 - part10 - masterlist

Santiago's carriage arrives at a smallish but charming rectory in Kent. This is Hunsford, Charlotte's new home. She rushes out and greets Santiago, kissing his cheek nervously.

Mr. Collins bows and ushers him in.

“Welcome to our humble abode.” He starts and continues to talk but Charlotte cuts him.

“My dear, I think our guest is tired after his journey.”

“Ah, yes… My wife encourages me to spend as much time in the garden as possible, for the sake of my health.”

A beat. Santiago glances at Charlotte, who remains impassive.

“I plan many improvements, of course. I intend to throw out a bow and plant a lime walk. Oh yes, I flatter myself that any young lady would be happy to be the mistress of such a house.”

A tiny nod from Santiago. Charlotte takes his arm and starts to walk to another room.

They are at last alone. They sit down in a charming little parlor that faces the front of the house. Charlotte pours out tea.

“We shall not be disturbed here, this parlour is for my own particular use. Oh Santiago, it's such a pleasure, to run my own home!”

Santiago nods uncomfortably.

“Charlotte! Come here!” Mr. Collins yells.

Charlotte jumps up and rushes to the window.

“What's happened?” says Santiago, alarmed.

“Charlotte!”

“Has the pig escaped again?”

Outside in the lane, Mr. Collins stands, bowing: at a carriage.

“Oh! It's Lady Catherine. Come and see, Santiago!”

Santiago goes to the window, unnerved by his friend’s enthusiasm. Mr. Collins rushes back towards the house and talks to them through an open window.

“Great news! Great news! We have an invitation to visit Rosings this evening from Lady Catherine de Bourg.”

“How wonderful!”

Santiago tries to feign pleasure.

“Do not make yourself uneasy, my dear cousin, about your apparel.”

“Just put on whatever you've brought that's best.”

“Lady Catherine has never been averse to the truly humble.”

Santiago stares at them both in disbelief.

***

Santiago, Charlotte and Mr. Collins walk hurriedly across a bridge towards the great house. The grey building looms ominously above them. It is grand without being elegant.

“One of the most extraordinary sights in all Europe, is it not. The glazing alone cost upwards of twenty thousand pounds.” Mr. Collins bragged.

The salon at Rosings is spectacularly grand; hideously so. Heavy furniture, rows of servants. The three guests are shown in by the footman. Again, Mr. Collins scrapes the floor with his bow.

“Your Ladyship. Miss de Bourg.”

Lady Catherine ignores him.

“So, you are Santiago Garcia Bennet.

“I am, your ladyship.”

“Hmm. This is my daughter.”

“It' s very kind of you to ask us to dine, Lady Catherine.” Charlotte interferes.

Lady Catherine ignores her, too.

“The chimneypiece alone cost 400 pounds.” Mr. Collins whispers to Santiago.

But Santiago doesn't hear. Miss Darcy walks into the room. freezes. Another man is with him.

“Miss Darcy! What are you doing here?”

“Oh, Miss Darcy. I had no idea we would have the honour...”

A stiff bow from Darcy, who looks at Mr Collins as if he's something brought in by the dog. She turns to Santiago, trying to collect herself.

“Mr. Santiago... I'm a guest here.”

“You know my niece?” Lady Catherine says, not pleased.

“Yes, madam, I had the pleasure of meeting your niece in Hertfordshire.”

Fitzwilliam, a much more easy-going chap, introduces himself.

“Colonel Fitzwilliam. How do you do?”

He bows. Santiago returns his smile gratefully. They move towards the dining room. Mr. Collins leans towards Santiago.

“You know Miss Darcy is as good as engaged to Miss de Bourg?”

“Really? Caroline will be disappointed to hear that.” He looks at the girl, and whispers to Charlotte “What a miserable little thing! They should suit each other perfectly.”

But Charlotte's uneasy smile confirms to Santiago that she has lost his friend in more ways than one.

***

The dining room is laid for a very grand dinner - footmen waiting, thousands of candles. Lady Catherine seats herself at the he and of the table.

“Mr. Collins! You can't sit next to your wife, get up. Move over there.”

After an awkward shuffle, Santiago finds himself sitting next to Darcy. Only his own discomfort prevents him from noticing Darcy is by no means master of her responses.

“I trust your family is in good health, Mr. Santiago?”

“They are, thank you. My eldest brother is currently in London, perhaps you happened to see him there?”

“I haven't been fortunate enough, no.”

Santiago looks at her. She colors slightly. Lady Catherine addresses Santiago in a loud voice, from the head of the table.

“Do you play the pianoforte, Mr. Bennet?”

“A little, ma'am, and very poorly.”

“Oh. Do you draw?”

“No, not at all.”

“Your siblings, do they draw?”

“Not one.”

“Has your governess left you?”

“We never had a governess.”

Mr. Collins squirms in embarrassment. Darcy watches Santiago, keenly.

“No governess? Five siblings brought up at home without a governess, I never heard such a thing! Your mother must have been quite a slave to your education.”

“Not at all, Lady Catherine.”

“Mmmm. Are any of your younger brothers out in society?”

“Yes, ma'am. All.”

“All! What, five out at once? Very odd! And you only the second the younger ones out before the elders are married! Your youngest must be very young.”

“Yes, my youngest is not sixteen. But I think it would be very hard on younger brothers, not to have their share of amusement because the elder is still unmarried. And to be kept back on such a motive! It would hardly encourage brotherly affection.”

“Upon my word, you give your opinion very decidedly for so young a person. Pray, what is your age?”

“With three younger brothers grown up, your Ladyship can hardly expect me to own to it.”

Lady Catherine looks astonished. Mr. Collins shifts in his seat, Santiago's enjoying himself and Darcy's having great difficulty concealing her admiration.

***

Dinner is over and they are drinking coffee. Darcy moves towards Santiago but Lady Catherine interrupts, by shouting from her seat.

“Come, Miss Bennet, and play for us!”

“No, I beg you-”

“Music is my delight. In fact, there are few people in England who have more true enjoyment of music than myself, or better natural taste. If I had ever learnt, I should have been a prodigy. So would Anne, if her health would have allowed her.”

“Lady Catherine, I am not afflicted with false modesty and when I say I play poorly ...”

“Come come, Santiago, her ladyship demands it!” Mr. Collins insists.

Santiago reluctantly sits down at the piano and starts to play. Lady Catherine takes no notice and talks loudly over the music.

“How does Georgiana get along, Darcy?”

“She plays very well.”

“I hope she practices. No excellence can be acquired without constant practice. I have told Mrs. Collins this. (Turns to Charlotte) Though you have no instrument of your own you are very welcome to come to Rosings and play on the piano in the housekeeper's room.”

“Thank you, your ladyship.”

“You would be in nobody's way, you know, in that part of the house.”

Darcy flinches at her bad manners. He moves away to the piano where Santiago is playing - not that terribly well, it must be said. He's nervous, plays a wrong chord and then gets angry with himself and focusses.

“You mean to frighten me, Miss Darcy, by coming in all your state to hear me, but I won't be alarmed even though your sister does play so well.”

“I am well enough acquainted with you, Mr. Santiago, to know I cannot alarm you even should I wish it.”

A beat. They eye each other warily. Colonel Fitzwilliam joins them.

“What was my friend like, in Hertfordshire?”

“You really care to know?”

The colonel nods.

“Prepare yourself for something very dreadful. The first time I saw her, at the Assembly, she danced with nobody at all “

“I knew nobody beyond my own party.”

“True, and nobody can be introduced in a ballroom.”

“Fitzwilliam! I need you!” Lady Catherine calls.

He moves away. Darcy and Santiago are alone. Darcy's struggling with her pride which suddenly gives way.

“I do not have the talent of conversing easily with people I have never met before.”

“Perhaps you should take your aunt's advice and practice.”

Darcy flinches. Santiago turns away from her and carries on playing. Darcy gazes at the curve of his neck.

***

Santiago is writing a letter in the drawing room. He starts "Dear Francisco..." The doorbell rings in the background, he thinks nothing of it and continues. The maid opens the door to the drawing room and Miss Darcy enters.

“Miss Darcy!”

An awkward pause.

“Please, do be seated. I'm afraid Mr. and Mrs. Collins are gone on business to the village.”

A pause. What on earth does Miss Darcy want? She paces up and down.

“This is a charming house. I believe my aunt did a great deal to it when Mr. Collins first arrived.”

“I believe so - and she could not have bestowed her kindness on a more grateful subject.”

Another pause.

“Mr. Collins seems very fortunate in his choice of wife.”

“He is indeed lucky to have found one of the few sensible women who would have accepted him.”

Darcy sits down.

“Shall I call for some tea?”

“No. Thank you.”

The sound of the front door, and voices. Darcy jumps up.

“Good day, Mr. Santiago. It's been a pleasure.”

He bows to her and leaves. Santiago sits there, bemused and intrigued.

Charlotte, in the hallway, taking off her bonnet. Darcy hurries past her, with a swift bow, and leaves abruptly. Charlotte gazes after her in surprise. She heads to the drawing room where she finds Santiago still sitting thinking.

“What on earth have you done to poor Miss Darcy?”

“I have no idea.”

Truly, she doesn't.

***

Mr. Collins, in his vestments, stands in the pulpit delivering his sermon. Lady Catherine sits in the front row with her daughter.

Santiago sits a little way behind with Colonel Fitzwilliam. They talk in whispers.

“How long do you plan to stay in Kent, Colonel?”

“As long as Darcy chooses. I am at her disposal.”

“Everyone appears to be at her disposal. I wonder she does not marry and secure a lasting convenience of that kind.”

Fitzwilliam looks at Santiago, curious about his brittle tone.

“They would be lucky.”

“Really?”

“Darcy is a most loyal companion. From what I heard, on our journey here, she recently came to the rescue of one of her friends just in time.”

Darcy glances across from the adjacent pew.

“What happened?”

“She saved the man from an imprudent marriage.”

“Who was the man?”

“Her closest friend. Charles Bingley.”

A silence.

“Did Miss Darcy give you her reasons for this interference?”

“There were apparently strong objections to the lady.”

“What kind of objections? His lack of fortune?”

“I think it was his family that was considered unsuitable.

“So she separated them?”

“I believe so. I know nothing else.”

Santiago grows pale. He turns to look at Darcy.

#santiago garcia #santiago garcia x reader #santiago garcia x you #frankie morales #ben miller #tom davis #will miller #triple frontier #triple frontier fanfic #oscar isaac characters #oscar isaac fic #onevolon fic #oscar isaac #oscar isaac hernandez estrada #oscar isaac fanfiction

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legends-of-time · 3 months

Text

The Journey of Living at Downton

Chapter 36: February to Late April 1924

Masterlist

There's conflict on where the new war memorial should be. Mr Carson and the committee argue for a special garden for it and to use the cricket ground for it. Naturally, Robert is completely opposed to the cricket ground being used but also to having the special garden in the first place. He wants the memorial to be in the centre of the Village. Tom's supporting him because Emma may have indicated that she thinks it's a good idea with her future knowledge used as an example.

In a sudden turn of events, Jimmy is leaving Downton. Emma hadn't expected it, but something must've happened.

——

Emma comes down the stairs to the downstairs area of the house and sees Thomas standing near the bottom along with Mr Molesley.

"Miss Baxter has had troubles in the past which you tried to use against her. Until her ladyship put a stop to it. That is all I need to know." Mr Molesley is retorting.

"I knew she hadn't told you." Thomas spits.

Thankfully, Mr Molesley walks away before Thomas can poison his mind any further. Emma reaches the bottom and pointedly clears her throat causing Thomas to spin around.

"Thomas." Emma says calmly with an unimpressed look on her face.

Thomas clears his throat and shuffles uncomfortably. "Emma."

"Mrs Patmore wanted to see me. Could you let her know I'm here?"

"I'll do that." He goes to fetch Mrs Patmore while Emma waits.

Mrs Patmore comes out of the Kitchen, wiping her hands on a cloth.

"A delicious dinner, Mrs Patmore." Emma compliments the cook.

Mrs Patmore gives her a warm smile. "Thank you very much."

"Gemma said you wanted a word?"

"Only if it's convenient, Emma." Mrs Patmore says. "But," she looks over her shoulder to check that no one is listening, "you know that young woman who works at the school?"

"Miss Bunting? Mr Prior's friend?"

"Yes. I didn't like to ask him in case he found it awkward." And Emma doesn't? "But I was wondering if she might be prepared to take on some extra work?"

Emma purses her lips but nods. "I'll ask her."

——

"Liverpool? With Tony Gillingham?" Emma questions after Mary has explained to her what is actually going on with her.

Mary scoffs as she takes off her gloves and hands them to Anna, who flitters about them as they talk. "Don't tell me you of all people disapprove. I thought you were all for women having control and all that."

"I do!" Emma retorts. "I just, well, why did you pick Gillingham? I would have chosen Blake personally."

"Emma, I thought you were married!" Anna comments with a slight smile.

Emma rolls her eyes jokingly. "I'm not planning on running away from him. I just appreciate. So, I suppose this means you're not really travelling and sketching with Annabelle Portsmouth?"

"No."

"But suppose they telephone Lady Portsmouth?" Anna questions.

"She's promised she'll cover for me." Mary replies.

"I feel quite nervous. And I'm not even going." Anna says practically. "We must choose the clothes carefully so you can take them on and off without my help."

Mary shrugs, taking off her jewellery.

Emma smirks. "She'll have his help."

Anna gives her a disproving but amused glance. "Honestly, you two. You'd better hope I never write my memoirs."

"There is one thing I've got to ask you. I'm really sorry, but I must." Mary says to Anna.

"Go on." Anna prompts while Emma looks at her curiously.

"I have to be sure there aren't any... consequences."

"What sort of consequences?" Anna asks, not getting it.

Emma raises her eyebrows. "You want to make sure there's no pregnancy."

Mary nods.

Anna is shocked. "Oh, my God. Er... I mean, I beg your pardon, m'lady."

"But you see I can't just go into a shop and buy something." Mary continues. "What if I were recognised? So could Emma."

"But I wouldn't know what to buy." Anna argues.

"I've thought of that." Mary walks over to her bedside cabinet to retrieve a book. "I have a copy of Marie Stopes' book. It tells you everything."

"Well, won't he take care of it?" Anna innocently asks, not taking the book.

"I don't think one should rely on a man in that department, do you?" Mary remarks.

"Not Lord Gillingham..." Emma says.

Mary rolls her eyes and huffs. "Honestly, I don't know what you've got against him. He's perfectly nice."

"He is and that's it."

"But suppose I'm recognised?" Anna questions.

"But you won't be." Mary argues. "And even if you are, you're married. With a living husband. Why shouldn't you buy one?"

She holds the book out to Anna. Anna takes it very reluctantly.

Emma glances at it. Married Love. Huh.

——

"Miss Bunting?!" Emma calls to the woman up ahead. While she gets lifts home at the end of a shift, Emma always likes walking to the Hospital, it reminds her of the old days when she and Sybil did it together during the war.

The woman turns and smiles politely as Emma hurries over. "Emma Branson. I'm surprised to see you and I thought I told you to call me Sarah."

Emma shrugs sheepishly. "Well, I wasn't sure, you see, after that dinner. I'm sorry for snapping at you."

"No, it's fine." Sarah reassures her. "I came on strong myself and I'd hate to alienate you. I just hope they haven't completely converted you. I hate to think of you as one of them."

Her tone and her complete write-off of the family bothers Emma but she doesn't say anything and changes the topic. "Anyway, the reason I stopped you is that I wanted to ask you something."

"What's that?"

"You know Daisy? She works in the Kitchen."

"I know her." Sarah says.

"Well, Daisy is wanting to improve her knowledge, her education but is struggling and Mrs Patmore was hoping you might be willing to help tutor Daisy?" Emma asks. Despite the awkwardness she might've, and has faced, talking to Sarah Bunting, Emma had wanted to do this for Daisy.

"It can't now, need to get to the school but I'll come later today." Sarah promises.

"And I need to get to the Hospital."

The two women share smiles before going their separate ways. Emma sighs in relief.

——

Edith has taken an interest in an orphan child the Drewes have taken in, wanting to be a part of her future and provide financial support. Emma finds it all a bit odd and maybe suspicious but doesn't want to intrude on Edith's secrets and decides to leave it be for now though hopes Edith realises she can come to her when she can.

Isobel and Violet have been invited to lunch at Lord Merton's home. Seems he's still pushing to spend time with Isobel though Violet still doesn't seem thrilled.

Charles Blake is coming to visit for this evening's dinner along with a friend of his, Simon Bricker, who seems interested in a Della Francesca painting that Downton apparently has. Considering how Mary has seemingly chosen Gillingham, Emma hates to think of the awkwardness that may arise from Blake's visit.

——

Mary is dressing for dinner with Anna's help and Emma joins them, already dressed.

"Was it ghastly?" Mary asks, almost hesitantly.

"I didn't know where to look. But when I thought about it afterwards, it seemed unfair to punish me like that." Anna reprimands. "Suppose I was a working woman with eight children, and I didn't want any more? Wouldn't I have the right?"

"I agree completely." Mary reassures her.

"I feel like going back and ordering a baker's dozen."

Emma frowns, looking at the packaging Mary holds. "Why'd you only get one?"

"One's enough for now." Mary replies. She smiles but Anna doesn't quite.

Emma wrinkles her nose. "Is it? I'd thought seven at the minimum."

"Why?" Anna asks.

"She's says they're spending the nights together, so shouldn't she have one for every night?"

"We're not having sex every night." Mary corrects her.

Emma looks at her doubtfully. "You're not?"

——

They assemble ahead of dinner in the Drawing room without Mr Bricker, Cora and Robert. Emma stands with Rose and Billy as they talk to Thomas.

"She's in the Kitchen?" Rose asks.

"I can't swear to what room she's in." Thomas replies, walking off.

"Mrs Patmore had asked me to ask Miss Bunting if she was available to give some lessons to Daisy, it seems she's decided to." Emma explains as Cora, Robert and Mr Bricker enter the room.

Rose turns to Billy. "Shouldn't we invite her to dinner? If she's your friend?"

"I don't think Lord Grantham would like it. Not after last time." Billy argues.

Emma somewhat agrees it she can't let Billy not do what he wants. "You shouldn't feel that you can't invite people, Billy."

"And it seems terribly grand and unfriendly not to. I'll ask Cora." Rose adds. She walks off. Billy looks worried.

Emma: do you want me to stop her? I wouldn't want you to feel pressured.

"No, it's fine, I like her but..." Billy tries to say but he trails off.

"What?"

"I just feel like the two parts of my lives are clashing." Billy admits. Emma rubs his arm sympathetically.

Emma sees Rose pull Cora away from the group and quickly pulls Billy over to them, glancing at Mary, who talks to Charles Blake, as she does so. The poor man is looking mildly upset and Mary is looking apologetic.

"What do you think?" Rose asks as Emma and Billy approach.

"We should give her the option." Cora replies.

"If you're certain. I don't want to feel I'm imposing." Billy says.

"Don't be silly. This is your home." Cora argues. Billy nods his assent and walks out of the room.

"Where's Billy going?" Robert questions as he comes over to them.

"Miss Bunting is downstairs." Cora tells him in an undertone.

"What?" In any other situation, Emma would've laughed at Robert's tone and facial expression.

"She's been teaching one of the maids in the Kitchen." Rose explains.

"It's Daisy she's teaching. Billy's gone to ask if she'd like some dinner." Emma adds.

"God in heaven, you're not serious." Robert grumbles.

"She's the first friend Billy's made that has nothing to do with us, and we must respect that." Cora argues.

"So, every time we entertain, we must invite this tinpot Rosa Luxemburg." Her husband retorts.

"Who's she?" Rose asks.

Emma rolls her eyes. "A German communist who was shot and thrown in a canal."

"We wouldn't wish that on Miss Bunting." Cora says pointedly.

"Hmm." He might.

——

Sarah Bunting declined the invitation, which is probably for the best considering Robert's hatred of her. But that doesn't stop the tension when the discussion of Russian refugees comes up.

"So, you're collecting clothes for the Russian refugees." Charles questions Rose. Emma sits on his other side, listening.

"I said no at first because, well, it didn't feel terribly me. But then I thought about them leading their lives before the fall." Rose replies.

"Doing everything you would do." Charles remarks.

"Exactly. Dancing and shopping and seeing their friends, and then suddenly being thrown out to fend for themselves in the jungle." Rose says earnestly.

Emma and Charles share an amused look at that.

Emma raises an eyebrow. "And that's the definition of ordinary life?"

Rose shrugs, not detecting the sarcasm. "Well, I thought I had to help if I could."

"It's lucky Miss Bunting refused our invitation, or she'd have given us a lecture on how they're aristocrats and so they deserve it." Robert interrupts. Everyone else at the table falls silent and listens, concerned. Emma rolls her eyes at the man, sighing exasperatedly.

Billy surprisingly fights back. "She believes the old regime in Russia was an unjust one. She hopes the new system will be an improvement."

"I agree with him. How can that make her a firebrand?" Tom adds.

Emma is proud of the two of them but glances at Robert, concerned.

"And you don't think certain acts of savagery forfeit any sympathy for the perpetrators?" Robert retorts.

"It was terrible, of course. But the English killed King Charles I to create a balance between the throne and parliament." Mr Carson looks absolutely scandalised at Tom's comment.

"I didn't kill him personally!" Robert fires back.

"And they didn't shoot the Imperial Family." Emma counters, shooting daggers at Robert.

Mr Bricker chuckles awkwardly from his seat next to Cora. "Goodness. Is this what they call a lively exchange of views?"

"It's about now that Papa usually fetches his gun." Mary remarks across from him. Emma rolls her eyes and nudges Mary, who shrugs.

"Mary, don't tease Mr Bricker." Cora admonishes. "He's come north to see a painting and finds himself in the middle of a civil war. I don't think we'll split tonight."

"They'll only fight if we do." Edith agrees.

"Mr Bricker wants to see the picture and I'm sure any delay is torment."

"You read my mind." Mr Bricker says with a smile. The way he says it causes Emma to frown slightly.

——

Rose had confessed to Emma about her struggles to get Robert onside for the wireless and has recruited her, but after tonight, Emma doesn't feel sure about being part of the plan.

Despite this, Emma joins Rose as they approach Robert and Mr Carson in the Hall. The others had gone ahead into the Drawing room.

"Robert, did you see that the King is going to speak on the wireless? It was in the paper today." Emma says pleasantly.

"Don't be silly." Robert scoffs.

"No, it's true. For the opening of the British Empire Exhibition. It's being broadcast on the 23rd. We," she shares a look with Rose, "just thought you'd like to know."

They share a smile as they turn and walk into the Drawing room, letting the words hang in the air.

——

Emma and Rose grin excitedly at one another as they watch two technicians set up the rented wireless that stands on a table in the Hall. It's a huge old-fashioned contraption, with a separate loudspeaker and aerial but Emma doesn't care, excited to see some sort of element of her future. Her shift at the Hospital doesn't start till the evening so she gets to be here for the historic speech.

She fondly recalls the day that Downton had its first telephone set up as it was also the day she and Sybil helped Gwen get an interview with the telephone man and get a job. Emma fondly remembers her friend. They still send the odd card to each other on each other's birthdays and at Christmas.

Mrs Patmore, Daisy, Gemma and Madge watch on as the workers go about their business. In the background, chairs are being set up for the great moment by the hall boys under the direction of Mrs Hughes. Rose is practically buzzing next to Emma as she looks at the apparatus with great interest, manual in hand.

"Why is it called a wireless when there's so many wires?" Daisy questions.

"I don't know." Mrs Patmore replies. Emma presses her lips together, so she doesn't laugh at the comments.

One of the technicians turns a switch.

"Nothing's happening." Rose says concerned.

"Probably needs a moment." Emma reassures her.

"She's right, m'lady." The technician agrees. "Just needs to warm up."

With a humming and crackling noise, the radio comes to life. The technician tunes it to some dance music.

This causes everyone to pause as they listen in amazement. Emma grins at all their faces, happy to see their excitement and wonder. Even Mrs Patmore likes what she hears.

"Is that Jack Hylton? Oh, golly, isn't this thrilling?!" Rose exclaims in excitement.

Emma grins. "Yes, it is exciting."

Mr Carson comes in. "What's this I see? Servants loitering in the hall with Her Ladyship due at any moment?" The younger servants scurry away.

Mrs Patmore points at the aerial. "Look at that. If I touch it, will I get a shock?"

"You'll only get a shock if you listen to it." Mr Carson remarks scathingly.

Emma is pulled away from the conversation when Rose grabs her arm and pulls her into a little dance. Emma laughs along with her. If she and Tom really go to America, she's going to miss the light and excitement that is Rose MacClare.

——

The entire Downton household is assembled to listen to King George V on the wireless. Emma, Edith, Cora, Robert, Violet, Isobel and Rose, with Ivy, Sybbie, George, Michael and the nannies behind them, sit in a wide semi-circle in front of the machine. Billy and Tom are both at work while Mary is off on her 'sketching' trip.

Behind is a long row of servants – two hall boys, Mr Molesley, Miss Baxter, Mr Bates, Mrs Hughes, Mr Carson, Thomas, Anna, Gemma, Mrs Patmore, Daisy, Anne and the kitchen maids. They all stand at attention as if for a state visit.

"It gives me the greatest pleasure and satisfaction to come here today with the Queen for the purpose of opening the British Empire Exhibition."

Prompted by Violet, who has risen to her feet at the first words, everyone stands respectfully.

Soon the King's speech is over, and the wireless plays "God Save the King". Robert has tears of patriotic elation in his eyes. When the anthem ends, he switches the wireless off and addresses the others.

"Well, you have heard the voice of His Majesty King George V." Robert declares. "What do you think, Carson? Mrs Hughes? The King on the wireless!"

"I prefer to think of him on his throne, m'lord." Mr Carson replies.

Mrs Hughes disagrees. "To me it's a good thing to make him less of a myth, more of a man." Mr Carson frowns at Mrs Hughes.

"Well, I hope you've all taken something of value from it."

The servants move away. The technician steps forward to take charge again. Robert stays to talk to him and have things explained.

Honestly, Emma didn't care that the King had spoken on the wireless. Though it is exciting to hear a historical figure speak in real time, she's more expected to see the wireless being used. It amuses her to see how amazed everyone is when thinking of the technology in her day.

The family finally tear themselves away from the fascinating apparatus and are about to disperse when Mr Carson addresses Robert.

"Shall I have it collected in the morning, m'lord?"

"Must he?" Emma asks, turning to Robert and giving him a pleading look. She can see Rose doing the same.

"Do we need to get rid of it in quite such a hurry, now it's here?" Cora joins in.

Robert turns to Mr Carson and the technician. "Put it in the Small Library."

Rose and Emma grin at each other. "Thank you for changing your mind." The former says to Robert.

"I wasn't aware I'd decided against it." Robert says casually causing Emma to roll her eyes with a slight smile. Sure...

"It's such a pity Mary had to miss it for a boring sketching trip." Rose remarks as she, Emma and Cora follow Robert into the Library.

"Somehow, I think she'd disagree." Emma comments.

——

A/N: Please leave comments on how you're enjoying this story and what you think.

#downton abbey

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