#second one may seem too generic but lord. this woman will find any excuse to tie you up | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

thatringboy · 3 years

Text

@yokelish @yoruzumy0 hey bitches, may I present to you:

It Takes Two

1,960 words - Fluff

Summary: Xiao and Hu Tao decide to open the Memory of Dust

Read it under the cut!

Xiao considered himself to be pleasantly distanced from most humans. He interacted with Qiqi of Bubu Pharmacy sometimes and he considered the Traveler from another world a nice companion. However, he had no excuse for why he spent his down time with the director of the Wangsheng Funeral Parlor as much as he did.

Nor did he have an excuse for why they had broken into Zhongli’s apartment and were rifling through his things.

“Director Hu,” he hissed as she opened up a dresser drawer and began searching what seemed to be a shirt drawer. “I put up with many of your antics, but this is going too far.”

She pulled her head up and her red eyes glowed mischievously. “But, Sir Alatus, you were the one with a key to the front door.”

“YOU PUNCHED IN THE WINDOW!”

“Tsk tsk, too many details. Now, help me find juicy things to hold over Mr. Zhongli’s head so that I can keep him from accepting commissions somewhere else. He’s too good for my business to lose.”

Xiao wasn't sure how to explain that the ex-archon had no plans to stop working at the funeral parlor and watched Tao shut the drawer and move to a small wooden desk covered in papers.

“Ooh, this is a fancy paperweight!” She lifted up a strangely shaped rock that glowed with Geo energy.

The adepti crossed the room and examined it. “It looks like a puzzle. Perhaps like that multi-colored cube Yanfei owns?”

Tao tossed the rock between her hands and looked over the ways the different rocks hooked together. This was child’s play for her. She could solve it in an hour tops. “Do you think he hides candy in here?”

Xiao took the puzzle and turned it over. His immortal eyes could easily pick out where the rocks needed to slide to unlock the center. “I believe the Lord of Geo would hold much more valuable things within this… whatever it is than sweets.”

She snatched it back and began fiddling with the locks and stone clasps. “Mr. Zhongli won’t be back from Ghuili Assembly until night, wanna find out?”

As much as the yaksha wanted to protest, the pleading look on Tao’s face and his own curiosity (which he blamed on Barbatos’ influence) won. They sat down on the floor and took turns sliding and unlocking parts of the strange stone. With each twist, the orange energy inside grew brighter and brighter.

It took them maybe thirty minutes to work a hole large enough in the stone to find the center. As Tao slid the last rock into place, the entire contraption began to vibrate and shot out of her hands. She squealed and Xiao’s hand shot out to pull his spear into existence. The sphere spun around in the air above them and became engulfed in the glow of pure Geo magic.

“What in Rex Lapis?” Xiao whispered and shielded his eyes from the light.

Tao grabbed Xiao’s spear arm and shook him violently while pointing at the floating thing. “Look, Gao-Xiao, look! It’s a person!”

“Huh?”

He opened his eyes and sure enough, the rock had vanished and where it had been floating now stood a young woman with long silky hair and a beautiful robe with billowing sleeves. She opened her eyes and Xiao was taken aback by how much the color resembled the petals of a Glaze Lily.

She blinked a few times and looked around. When she spoke, her words were soft and filled Tao’s heart with nostalgia like she had never experienced before. “May I ask where I am?”

Tao cleared her throat and let go of the adepti next to her. “You’re in, uh, Liyue Harbor?”

The woman smiled and turned her eyes to Xiao. “It is good to see you, Xiao. Do you remember me?”

He felt his throat go dry. Xiao let his weapon disappear and fell to his knees before her, biting his tongue to keep himself from making any noises. “My lady.”

She snorted playfully and tugged on his hair to make him stand back up. “Get up, you drama queen, since when have I ever required you to be so formal? So where is he? I do not feel Morax’s presence here.”

Tao reached over and tugged on her sleeve. “Yeah, hi, I’m Tao. I’m the director of the Wangsheng Funeral Parlor? Whomst are you?”

“My name is Guizhong, my little peach.” Her eyes were as soft as silk.

Hu Tao’s jaw dropped dramatically as her words came out as sputters. Xiao got back to his feet with wide eyes.

“But how can you be here? You…”

“Died? Yeah, that happens sometimes.” Guizhong fluffed her hair with a smirk. “Anyways, where’s Morax? I need to ask him why it took him almost four thousand years to unlock the Memory of Dust.”

“He’s, umm, Rex Lapis is out today. We are the ones that freed you, Lady Guizhong. Were you trapped in there for over three thousand years?” Xiao cocked his head to the side.

The god looked around again. “That seems to be the case, yes. I put a piece of my soul inside the Memory of Dust as a failsafe in case anything happened to me during the Archon War. So tell me, Xiao, what all has happened in my absence? Why are you not accompanied by the other yakshas?”

Xiao rocked back and forth on his heels uncomfortably and didn’t meet her eyes. Hu Tao stepped over and linked her arm in Guizhong’s. “I’m not sure I know everything that happened, but I can at least tell you what happened in the past month or so!”

~~~~~ “What a splendid meal! I swear, Mister Zhongli, we should enjoy such fine dining more often!” Childe wiped his face on a silk napkin with a wide smile.

Zhongli nodded and reached into his pocket to retrieve his wallet to pay for the food, but stopped. “Oh, well, this is certainly awkward now.”

“No Mora again? I took you for a working man.” The Harbinger winked and pulled out his own wallet. “You are lucky to be dining with someone as generous as myself.”

Childe leaned across the table and his voice dropped tremendously. “And of course, you understand what I require in return.”

Zhongli shook his head. “I’m not fighting you.”

The younger man laughed and fell back in his seat. “Such stubbornness! Oh how I wish to beat it out of you!”

“Perhaps I could treat you to some quality tea and more chopstick-using lessons instead?” The ex-Archon felt himself grinning.

Childe’s smile only grew. “Deal!”

The walk back to Zhongli’s apartment was pleasant. Zhongli quite enjoyed all of Childe’s stories from his childhood in Snezhnaya and because he was no longer duty bound to Liyue as its Archon, he silently promised to one day visit the icy country of the North.

However, all pleasantries fell away when they approached the front door and noticed that a window was smashed, the sound of conversation floating out into the air of the night. Childe smirked and pulled out his swords. “Looks like I’ll get my fight after all!”

Zhongli recognized one of the voices, but he couldn't place it. He pulled his key out of his coat pocket and unlocked the door quietly. They slipped inside and looked around for the intruders. However, Zhongli froze when he caught sight of who sat at his dinner table without a care in the world.

“And then, after this guy almost floods the entire city, Zhongli still asks him out to dinner!” Hu Tao laughed.

Xiao crossed his arms and grumbled from across the table. “It is as they say, ‘love is blind’.”

“I for one think this Childe man sounds pleasant. He certainly isn't any more dangerous than Morax’s other exes.” The second woman giggled.

Zhongli dropped his keys as Childe slipped behind him. “What’s this? A party for us?”

The yaksha gasped and jumped to his feet, bowing lowly at the hip. “My lord! Forgive the intrusion! I shall repair your window at once!”

Tao coughed loudly from her seat. “Simp.”

Guizhong slid out of her seat gracefully and stood before Zhongli. “Hey there, old timer.”

He crossed the distance between them and engulfed her in a hug. “Are you really here?

“Uh… yes? My question is why did it take you three thousand and seven hundred years to unlock the Memory of Dust?!” She hugged him back, but gave him a wicked pinch.

He let go and looked around. “It was an impossible puzzle--”

Xiao rubbed the back of his neck. “Director Hu and I solved it in half an hour.”

“And out popped the pretty god!” Tao grabbed a cup of tea from the table and downed it in a single gulp. “Oh, hi twink!”

“Hi yourself, shortie!” Childe waved at her from the doorway. “Anyways, can someone introduce me to this lovely woman here?”

She moved a gaping Zhongli out of her way to shake Childe’s hand. “Hi, I’m Guizhong!”

“Guizhong? As in the God of Dust? Nice to meet you, I’m Childe, but I also go by Tartaglia!”

Hu Tao moved over to Xiao and pinched his elbow, prompting him to hand her three Mora. “I told you they would hit it off.”

Guizhong turned back to Zhongli to see a tear streaking down his cheek. She frowned and grabbed his arm. “Oh no, Morax! Don't be sad! I’m back!”

“I’m not sad…” He examined every inch of her face. How could he had forgotten how kind her eyes were? “This may be the happiest day of my life.”

Childe cleared his throat loudly. “So… about that tea and those lessons you promised me?”

The ex-Archon remembered his existence. “Oh, right, my apologies, Childe. Do you still wish to learn how to use chopsticks?”

Guizhong gasped loudly. “You don't know how to use chopsticks?! It’s a good thing that I’m a god of wisdom! Xiao, get in that kitchen and find us some pairs to use at once!”

The adepti gulped and moved to follow her orders. “Yes ma’am.”

Childe was dragged to the table by the woman with the large sleeves and forcefully sat down. Xiao returned with chopsticks and Hu Tao took the seat next to him with a large smile.

As Guizhong began her instructions, Zhongli watched the scene unfold with deep emotions in his eyes. He had fantasised for centuries about what the Memory of Dust held within - that perhaps it was some sort of parting wisdom from his oldest friend, but this? Having a piece of her soul be trapped within it, waiting for him to unlock it?

He chuckled to himself, of course it would. That was how Guizhong’s fantastic mind worked.

“Forgive my interruption, but how did you two unlock the Memory of Dust? I tried and failed for almost four thousand years to solve the puzzle.” He glanced at his desk where the contraption would have sat.

Guizhong’s laugh was like bells ringing in his ears. “Morax, you old fool, you simply needed two people to solve it. To acknowledge that you need assistance is the most wise thing a person can do.”

Zhongli sat down in an empty chair and watched Childe drop his chopsticks to crack his knuckles. “Then I see that even I still have much to learn from you. I take it you will be returning to Juyuin Karst?”

She snorted. “Oh gods no! I’m staying with you, partner! You think I can afford to travel around whenever I want to? In this economy? No sir, you’ve just got yourself a new roommate and you can blame little Conqueror of Demons and your boss for that!”

#Hu Tao and Childe continue to be moods #fanfic #fanfiction #fluff #genshin impact #Zhongli #Hu Tao #Xiao #Childe #Guizhong

48 notes · View notes

cxmetery-gates · 3 years

Text

VALOR - DARTH MAUL

CHAPTER ONE: THE HUNTRESS AND THE HUNTER

SUMMARY: After attempting to kill a Sith lord unbeknownst to her, Ucilla Zykoff realizes she has made a grave mistake. WORD COUNT: 3.4K NOTES: Chapter one here we goooo! Love a couple who want to murder each other on sight. Sorry it took so long. I had so many ideas ready to go, then life got in the way. Anyway! I have a discord that my readers can use to discuss the story! It also let me share my silly memes and get to know y’all. Thank you for reading! WARNINGS: general sci-fi violence

VALOR MASTERLIST

AS THE SUN BENDS BEHIND the horizon, the cover of night encapsulates the city. With the rising of the moon, the mission is awoken.

Dusk phasing into night elapses with a stillness, but as a gust of sudden wind shakes the shutters as it passes, a chill runs up her spine. Startled by the sounds for a fleeting moment, a sigh passes through her lips before turning into a bemused hum. Cool air drifts over her skin, soothing yet awakening. With the seasons beginning to change towards a wet, flourish spring, the air is crisp and dry from a winter willing itself to create one last frost before retreating once more. She would be offworld long before the petals started to bloom.

Once the last of the day's shadows unite into one blanket of darkness, Ucilla Zykoff stands from the measly excuse of a bed to glance out the window through the slits of the shutters. Her icy blonde hair is pulled back with a tie resting against the nape of her neck, a few hairs escaping to try to obscure her sight. Her golden eyes watch figures tuck into their homes, counting down the seconds until their lights are shut until the next morning. It will not be long before the impenetrable sound of the night life masks her task from wandering eyes and ears. Tucking strands of hair behind her ear, the young woman leans back on the wall of her room. Cobwebs cling to the fabric of her clothes as she does so.

The establishment is nothing to rave about, though the dusty room and a firm cot above a noisy cantina is a luxury in comparison to other make-shift lodgings. The bounty hunter has grown used to rocks boring into her spine, cramped spaces, and days without sleep— typical for someone in this line of work.

Across from her, a sniper rifle stands against the opposite wall. The durasteel has seen better days, but so has she. Ucilla pushes herself off from where she leans, making her way towards her weapon. It is surprisingly light due to Ucilla's modifications. Positioning her sniper rifle in her hands, Ucilla now waits patiently for movement off in the distance. The barrel of the gun sits between the slightly ajar shutters, invisible to any bystander. Waiting was part of the job, and she has become very good at it.

Ucilla scans the rooftops of the city buildings using the scope attached to her weapon. The infrared colors become all too boring as the sight hardly changes over a period of minutes. The job is similar to any of the other hundreds she is taken: hunt, locate, go for the kill. All her missions become an identical cluster after a while.

The night carries on and Ucilla's eyes are beginning to sore from being trained on movement. All she wants is to get the job over with and allow herself to indulge in the reward. Bounty hunting is not a line of work that she believed would ever suit her, but with the hefty rewards for high targets, the comfort of credits is enough to keep her coming back. Even though Ucilla could buy a small house or decent apartment for what she currently has in Republic credits, settling down never seemed to work out well for the Scaki. She had not even returned to her home world, despite having every reason to do so.

Where once soft mummers acted as a hush over the city, now the lights and the noise of cantinas flood the dark alleys and streets. The city is preoccupied by dreams or by those wishing to live in dream, opting for late nights in hopes to escape from the trivial lives they find themselves in. As such, Ucilla would remain unbothered.

As the sound of drunken men and flirtatious women reverberate as echoes under her feet, Ucilla uses the increasing noise from the cantinas around the area to mask the sound of her ignited weapon. No one would hear a whirling buzz or the unexpected cry when a tankard had drowned out all their senses.

Ucilla is good at her practice. She must. There are many hunters who would not bat an eye in killing her if she stood in the way of an expensive bounty. Trial and error led her to where she is, and it did not take long before her use of stealth, accuracy, and efficiency turned her into a highly sought out freelance bounty hunter.

Though she would never admit to it openly, Ucilla has a slight advantage on her associates. One being evident by the cylindrical weapon always hidden at the bottom of her satchel that has not been ignited in years.

Ucilla learned long ago that studying a target is far more beneficial than making things quick and messy. After all, depending on the target, the price typically rises each week. For instance, in the scope of her rifle, Ucilla now spots the man who disclosed a long list of individuals working for one of the galaxy's biggest crime syndicates: his bounty doubled just two days ago.

Over the week and a half, she spent watching Jaro Linst, Ucilla had memorized the snitch's schedule. In the morning, he wakes early to have a large breakfast. He stays indoors during the days, but he typically makes a run to a shop or the market before noon. He seldom has guests, but when he does, their either men being paid to protect him from the Hutts or Twi'leks being led by chains. When night envelops the area, he is bold enough to bring his guests to the rooftop of his hideout. Linst's eyes are always shut as he takes the first breath of the nighttime air, absorbed in the taste of prolonged freedom.

Just as she suspected, Linst reaches the top of the building with a drink in his hand and his broad, tall body open to whatever blaster fire she could afford to waste.

However, unlike most nights, his face is turned downwards, and he is not entirely alone.

Trailing behind the man, a figure in all black has their face hidden by a heavy cloak with a hood. This offered no indication as to who this mysterious person may be. Not that it mattered. Her bounty was clear: kill Jaro Linst and get the reward, no matter what happens.

Her sniper-rifle is angled towards her bounty but, given the fact that Linst may have more hunters on his trail, Ucilla decides on removing the additional threat first. In the scope, the hood still conceals the face of the new target.

No matter.

She pulls back on the trigger.

The shot rings out near silently and in perfect alignment.

But it never reaches the head of her target. Instead, it ricochets off a familiar weapon and embarks on a mission straight towards her forehead.

Ucilla dodges the attack, rolling her back against the wall of her hotel room just in time as the red blaster fire digs straight through the opposite wall. Imagining if she had frozen for half a second more, Ucilla offers her blessing to the makers for her reflexes.

Clutching the gun to her chest, Ucilla finds herself now semi-frozen in fear. An icy feeling coursing through her veins offers no help in alleviating the shock. Instead, she releases the breath she was holding from stupor, blinking away the cloudy vision.

The brightly colored weapon that shot her fire back was one she had used long ago. This time, the blade was not lilac in color. Even the most uneducated creature could sense the danger that flows through the shaft, the deep dreadful color that exuberates caution.

A bleeding kyber crystal resides in that blade, crimson in color.

"Kriff."

Wasting no time, Ucilla lowers herself to the ground, carefully making sure the lightsaber wielder could not see her through the shutters. Cursing in every language she knows, Ucilla crawls on her belly until she finds the brown satchel at the foot of the cot. In haste, the blonde slips the strap over her head, hugging across her chest tightly, but there was no time to adjust. She flings the rifle over her shoulder before hurriedly skidding out the door.

On her way out, Ucilla pushes through drunken patrons to reach the bar to slam down a handful of credits on the counter in front of the inn keeper, continuing to walk towards the exit as she does so. The inn keeper raises his voice, calling out that she owes him more, but his voice is drowned out among the crowd and she is already gone.

Lifting her wrist closer to her face, the Scaki swipes through her holocom until Jaro Linst's bounty appears. Despite the large sum, Ucilla presses down on the option to forfeit. There was no chance she would go near a mission that was compromised by a Dark sided individual.

A Sith.

Ucilla could not calm her heart, the organ forcing blood to pump fast through her body. The reverberation echoes in her ears. But the headache is nothing in comparison to what the Sith could do to her.

She was almost to the heart of the city when an impeccable drought in the energy stifled her movements. The atmosphere is heavy, darkness tingling at her senses. Ucilla's hair stands on end at the sensation. Against her better judgment, she freezes.

Moments later, Ucilla's thrown off her feet, landing hard against a wall before crumpling down.

The blow had torn the breath right out of her. Gasping, Ucilla reaches for her chest, gripping the long, worn leather vest tight in her palms. From the inside pocket above her heart, she pulls out a circular object, yanking the pin out of place before dropping it to the ground.

Footsteps draw near. Instead of wasting her time, Ucilla prances from her crouch and bolts up the side of the wall, using rails and the closeness of the buildings as her foot and handholds. She forces her body to move swift and precise, just as she was taught years ago. By the time she reached the roof, the smoke bomb had gone off. All Ucilla can do is hope that the distraction is enough.

Ucilla is left without much of another option. The shingled roofs were difficult to adjust to at first, some coming lose from her added weight, but eventually her footing held on and she was off like a speeder. Running along the tops of the buildings, jumping to the next one with grace and stead, Ucilla knew when to dodge attacks and when to advert her direction. It was not the first time she was running away from a foe, and she had a feeling it would not be the last.

Daring to look back, Ucilla feels her heart drop. The man following her copies each step, leap, and now, he is close enough to claim her dead, for real this time.

With no other option, Ucilla calculates her jump. Instead of throwing herself far enough to reach the next building, she leaps down several stories. Thankfully, they had come across the hub of the city and a canopy breaks her fall, bouncing from the cloth and onto the ground once more. The moment her tall boots hit the earth, she is off running again. With so many people wandering the streets, Ucilla hopes she can blend in, even though she is seemingly the only one in worn clothes and dashing through the streets.

The city is vast and incredibly narrow— easy to get lost in⁠— but Ucilla had been here for quite some time, learning every back alley and corner shop during her weeks on the planet. With this knowledge in mind, surely, she has some advantage over her opponent. How likely is it that they, too, has memorized back alleys that leads to the shipyard?

Ucilla felt as though she could feel their breath on her neck, their fingertips just centimeters from gripping her hair. As if possible, her legs pushed harder than ever before.

Ducking into a back alley, Ucilla used her petite figure to maneuver through the garbage, boxes, and drunks that scattered the path. To her surprise, the person following was not prepared for the turn nor the obstacles in their path. They had fallen behind. She takes this moment to press her back against a wall between two strangers, pulling her hood further to hide her face.

It was not long after when Ucilla feels the dark ease away. She needs to know if he still lingers. Before she can make it safely to her ship, she will have to know how far behind the hunter is and if he can easily make it onto her ship or destroy it in some way.

Any normal foe would have mistakenly moved on from the area, never to find her again. Though she has never faced off against a Sith before, nor does she know anyone who has, what Ucilla does know is that there is no telling what a creature fueled by uncontrollable emotions with an unpredictable nature will do.

Before the drunken men could ask once more if she would like a drink, Ucilla pushes herself from the stone wall, cautiously making her way through street after street, back alley after alley. Her heart hammers in her chest no matter how she tried to stop it. Without knowing what kind of species the dark side wielder is, she has no conclusive answer if he can hear her labored breathing. As she sticks to the shadows of the city, Ucilla sends silent prayers to the makers to spare her this time.

With each step nearing the shipyard, the amount of people out and about grow less and less. By the time she was within blocks of her ship, only a few stragglers walked the streets. She felt lucky, allowing herself to walk faster even if the passersby gave suspicious looks.

Ucilla is no more than a block from the garage where her ship was located when she tumbled to the ground, a powerful blow toppling her, a wrestling match ensuing to determine life or death.

Kicking the figure off her, she throws a punch blindly. The huntress's punch misses the figure's jaw by a second, but that does not stop her from swinging again.

To her surprise, the saber is not ignited, nor does he go to reach for the weapon. The Force wielder instead copying her hand-to-hand combat. Maybe they thought she deserved a fair chance, or maybe they were simply trying to torture her into submission.

The hunter was the first to strike a powerful blow.

Ucilla's nose begins to bleed upon the impact of a fist, knocking her dazed for a moment. In the haste of her backing up and the figure coming forward, Ucilla did what any bounty hunter would have done.

Perhaps the cloaked Sith was not expecting the blaster to be drawn and the trigger to be pulled so fast, because the hunter is thrown off balance by a bolt embedding itself into their shoulder. A sound akin to a growl shakes Ucilla to the core.

When his head turns back, the hood from his cloak falls, just enough to give Ucilla a picture for her nightmares.

A male Zabrak. How interesting. Ucilla's eyes run over the intricate black tattoos on his face, trailing from where they start down to where they disappear beyond his dark robes. The red and black contrast is frightening to some degree, but Ucilla has faced worse. His appearance matches the fiery energy he exudes. Horns adorn his skull, several points wrapping around to remind Ucilla of a crown. Glowing, boiling amber of his altered eyes catch her attention.

So full of hate and anger; a storm that brings no calm in the wake of its destruction. There is a moment where Ucilla wonders what happened to this Sith, the journey that led him here to strike her down.

A Sith deals with the lust for absolute power, the destruction of the universe to make their strength known. To conquer is all they know, no matter who stands in their way.

He bares his teeth, and Ucilla can feel the rage coming from him. Rather than sticking around to anticipate his next move, Ucilla shoots several more times in the Zabrak's direction then begins to run to where her ship waits.

She can feel his decision, the way his anger directs his actions, how his natural rage bubbles over, destruction always existing, white-hot. There was no other warning before the Zabrak throws the dual blade at her. Instincts kick in. Ucilla turns on her heel to hold out her hand, something she has not done in years.

In midair, the blade is still. One entity aims to kill, the other refuses to let death take her.

The blade then falls, dust splashing along the steel. Both watch the unignited weapon on the ground. Simultaneously, both look up, their eyes meeting with new sentiment.

The tension is heavy in that street. Neither can predict what the other is thinking nor what moves they plan on making. However, there is something that Ucilla can read off the Zabrak. The squint to his eyes combined with wrinkles forming on his forehead tells her that his mind races with questions. After all, he most likely was not expecting the night to end with a woman one-upping him in the Force. Like a switch, Ucilla suddenly feels the anger exploding from the Zabrak; he is not going to let her get away.

But Ucilla is faster. Her secret is already out, and she has no time to waste. Reaching up, she uses the Force to bring down the archway, the stones and rubble falling on top of the tattooed Zabrak. She hears him cry out in anguish, but she does not stay long to hear anything else.

Ucilla is quick to slip into the cockpit of her ship. Her voice has once again resorted to curses in a number of languages as she flips various switches. A loud sigh of relief exits her when the sound of the engine roaring to life reaches her ears. As she activates all the right gears to get her off the dry planet, she takes one last look down to the earth: her blood runs ice cold.

There, close enough to stop her if he wanted with a single slash of his crimson ignited saber, is the Sith. His hood has now returned atop his crowned head, though it does little to obscure his glowing amber eyes.

His actions, or lack thereof, surprise Ucilla, the woman he had been hunting for a good mile through a city. And now, he stands there, seemingly unfazed, without care as she makes a successful escape. Escaping was certainly part of the plan, but the fact that the Zabrak has forfeited in spite of being so close to winning is annoying to some extent.

Before Ucilla has another moment to dwell on the Sith nor giving him another moment to reconsider, the YT-1210 lifts off from the ground. The Scaki's focus is drawn away from her foe despite knowing that turning her back on an enemy is a recipe for disaster. To her fortune, the Revenant makes it into the atmosphere and into hyperspace with ease.

The coordinates are placed. A safehold on Duro. Ucilla had not been there in quite some time and if she were lucky, an enemy-to-partner would be there, too. At least she would have someone to listen to her story.

The ship is set to autopilot, allowing for Ucilla to lean back in the pilot's chair, her leg bent to hold her knee against her chest. Though she is safe at the moment, Ucilla can not be sure for how long. What would she do if the Sith tracks her to Duro? Would he make her wait in anticipation as he had done in the shipyard?

For the first time in millennia, a Sith had revealed himself. At least to her knowledge: dead men tell no tales. Perhaps telling Bane about her encounter is for the best. If she becomes a successful mission for the Sith, at least someone would know what happened to her.

If anything, Ucilla knows of one plan that has not failed her yet. Just as she had done long ago, running has always been part of a good plan.

☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆

TAGLIST:

@bonesaldente @blue-space-porgs @jayden-rose-leon

IF YOU WOULD LIKE TO BE TAGGED, LET ME KNOW!

#valor #darth maul #darth maul x oc #darth maul x reader #maul #maul x oc #maul x reader #star wars #star wars prequels #ucilla zykoff #chapter 1 #The Clone Wars #Clone Wars #obi wan kenobi #Anakin Skywalker #crimson dawn

23 notes · View notes

carrioncrows-readers · 3 years

Link

You may not be good at a lot, but damn if you don't know business and numbers.

Content Warnings: major content warning for sexual harassment, explicit violence

When Jacob first brought you to the brothel, you thought he'd genuinely lost his mind — you made it quite clear you weren't interested in fucking him for money. With his arm around your shoulders, you were prepared to make quite a lot of fuss if he tried anything — but he didn't. Instead, he offered you a bookkeeping job for steady pay, with room to take "freelancing" on commission should you so desire. It was unexpected. It was — nice. The place is nice. A bit gauche, and good lord, those curtains are tacky, but you didn't expect prostitutes to be so…

Well. Nice.

Come to find out, the woman who left a lipstick stain on Jacob's cheek (you aren't jealous; you aren't) is named Jenny. Jenny is in the elected position of being madame (you didn't know madames were elected?) of the establishment. Which also happens to be the name of the brothel itself. The Establishment. Tongue-in-cheek, but effective.

She's full-bodied and impossibly soft, brown hair piled into curls on top of her head. The pearls she wears are gifts from clients, apparently, and it's become so much of a running joke that for her birthday, the girls saved up to get her a new set of pearl earrings for fun. You have no idea why she wears them all at once.

She peers over your shoulder as you scribble in the ledger, writing down dates and numbers, trying not to get a headache putting it all together. Unfortunately, you haven't had time to sharpen up your sums.

"Ms. Jenny," you glance at her from the corner of your eye, looking for a way to fill the silence since no one is murdering the pianoforte, "can I ask why you haven't done the bookkeeping yourself?" She hums and smiles at you. You notice dimples in the roundness of her cheeks, like craters on the moon.

"Well, dearie, it's because I can nary read nor write. Neither can any of the others — been meaning to hire a bookkeeper for a bit, just never got 'round to it, I suppose." Suddenly and for, of course, no reason at all, you want to disappear into the floor. You should have guessed. Now you feel awful.

You look at your notes. You had all the girls tell you a rough estimate of their earnings for the past six months; some were more accurate than others, but you get the feeling that Jacob just wanted to find you something to do. He doesn't take a massive percentage anyways; usually, it fluctuates depending on how much they've earned that month. Always enough for a comfortable living after expenses, always favorable towards the brothel residents. You've no idea why, just that he somehow manages to supplement his own income enough that it doesn't put him in the red.

"I see," you say, pausing to add up all the earnings for July, minus overhead. Jenny leans in with her eyes narrowed and pokes your side, making you jump so high your ass almost hits the ceiling.

"You're a right hard one to read you are; what's that supposed to mean? Hm?" She pokes you again, and you feel your cheeks burn bright red.

"Nothing! Nothing, I just — felt terrible for asking, I suppose. Ow." You rub your side — does the woman have knives for fingers, or is your skin just made of paper? She pokes your arm — definitely knife fingers.

"Well, no harm done."

You sit quietly, shuffling papers in the ledger until everything is tight and up to date — it's not doing too terribly for a Whitechapel brothel. Still, there are some improvements to be made — namely, the settlement of customer debts.

How ironic that you have become the creditor now.

You set your pen down and lean against your steepled fingers, a plot crawling up the back of your mind and settling in. You ask Ms. Jenny, since she is much more familiar with the Rooks than you, to find you a few burly men. And to tell them to bring weapons. Blunt ones.

This is your job now — you'll be damned if you're not going to do it well. Besides, this isn't something you should bother Jacob with.

It isn't tricky to track down your debtors; one look at you smiling in your silks and velveteens, a train of rugged brutes behind you, and people scrape the ground to tell you where your targets live. They know what's coming, and they're not eager to try and quell the storm. You knock very politely on the door to an apartment in a run-down shack of a building, watching it crack open a hair's breadth. That is all the opening your boys need — they muscle in and push Mr. Curtis to the ground. You ignore him swearing to shut the door, folding your hands in front of your stomach.

"Mr. Curtis! I believe we have business."

"I don't know what you're fucking talkin' about," he spits. A simple nod of your head is all the excuse one of your enforcers needs to start walloping Mr. Curtis about the head until he begs you to stop him. You do, the smile on your face ever so slowly becoming a genuine manic grin.

"You owe my employer quite a bit of money. Do you have a wife, Mr. Curtis? I assume not if you visit brothels so often, but I wouldn't put it past you to cheat, either." Curtis rolls onto his side and covers his weeping nose, and you're fascinated by the slow drip-drip-drip of red into a puddle on the floor. "You have one month, which I find very generous. Can you read?" You don't receive an answer, just a low groan of pain that sends a tingle up your toes; you pull a piece of paper out of your pocket, the ink already dry as you sit it on a side table. On it is a sum of money, a date, and Curtis' name.

You leave him to lick his wounds, damn near skipping out into the darkened street. You visit three more houses in short order before returning to the brothel to see Jacob leaned over the intake desk, talking with Jenny. They both have lit cigars between their fingers. You had no idea Jacob smoked. He turns his head, and you suddenly feel self-conscious of where you've been.

"Done terrorizing the whole of Whitechapel?" He asks, but he doesn't sound unangry. Not that it doesn't stop you from worrying that he's simply putting on an air of calm. You quail and fiddle with the ends of your gloves, staring at your shoes.

"I apologize-"

"Think nothing of it," he says and comes over to pat your shoulder. "Debts need to be paid, and I appreciate you looking after my people. Your people now, too, I guess." Your people. You stare at Jacob and his toothy smile around his cigar, his hand still settled on your shoulder like it belongs there. You clear your throat and shrug it off, hurrying to the desk to note down when your debtors are supposed to send in their payments. It's mostly just to keep your hands busy.

Your people.

You've never really belonged to a group before. You exist in the gray strata between the middle class and the aristocracy, scathingly referred to as the nouveau riche by your would-be peers and mistrust by the working people of London, you belong nowhere. Unwelcome in the clubs and symposiums of the genteel, nor the pubs and coffeehouses of the mercantile caste. You didn't even have that many friends among the newly rich, either. Even for them, you were too… off. Violet Morvell was someone who tolerated you enough to call you acquaintance. Or so you thought.

The idea of having people is foreign and exciting, and terrifying all at once.

***

Your time at the brothel is well-spent. You buy yourself a math primer with the salary you get and brush up on your sums. With that knowledge in hand, you are brutally efficient with the finances of The Establishment. You set up a sign-in sheet and record every name that comes through the door, much to the patrons' shock and chagrin. The burly doorman you recently hired on is insistence enough they give you their real names, which in and of themselves are insurance. Occasionally he has to throw out a tirading customer, but they usually come back for their fix of unfortunate women. Sex, you suppose, is at the root of most vices.

At the end of the month, all four of your debtors turn their money into your capable (you hope) hands. You didn't have to visit them a second time — they either respect Jacob Frye too much, or they're too terrified of him to keep skimping on his money.

You begin educating a few of the girls on manners, etiquette, and how to properly play a pianoforte without sounding like they're torturing a cow. When you suggest that the brothel start serving tea and coffee to waiting customers, Ms. Jenny happily converts one of the rooms into a small kitchen. It makes more overhead, but in the end, the payout is astounding — it makes the patrons feel special, and men who feel special are pleasantly inclined to give more in terms of tips. Pun intended. Jacob would be proud of that one, you think.

It also attracts wealthier clientele, whom you are more than happy to charge extra for the pleasure of pretty company. The Establishment prospers with you holding the purse strings; you almost dare yourself to feel proud. The Rooks have taken to calling you bookie, of all things. Sometimes they even invite you out for drinks.

You've never had a nickname before. You think you might like it.

The English winter drudges on and turns into an English spring, and you settle into a rhythm. You moved into an apartment in Whitechapel, a nicer one (in comparison — it's still poverty when set beside how you used to live, but you think you're slowly acclimating to it) closer to work. You spend most of your time with Ms. Jenny and the girls anyway — most nights, you find yourself passed out at your desk until Ms. Jenny shoos you to a couch in a dark corner by the stairs. She begins to insist that you call her Jenny, just Jenny — but that seems like a breach to you, a line you're just not ready to cross yet, no matter how many times she covers you with a blanket and lets you sleep in the receiving room.

At the end of every month, you meet Jacob in a pub to hand over his cut and go over the ledger. He always lingers to talk with you after, and you've gotten to know him, you think. As much as you can know someone who somehow manages to head both a crime syndicate and an alleged, shady reactionary freedom movement. At least that's what you can glean from the whispered conversations he's had with you when you ask after it.

"I think I know that look," he says, pointing his glass at you, "what are you thinking about?"

Damn him and his sharp eyes — you really must be more careful about your expressions.

"I realize that I don't actually know you at all," you say, swirling your glass around in your hand to slosh the wine inside. Frye's response is a dry chuckle and little more than that, grabbing the bottle of wine and refilling his own cup. You know he's not partial to wine. You know he prefers milds to bitters and finds that lager doesn't have the malty taste he enjoys, but he drinks it when he goes to Evie and Jayadeep's. But beyond that? He may as well be a ghost to you.

"Perhaps that's for the best," he says. You watch him chug half his cup before he sits it down again, wipes his mouth, and clears his throat. You sit your glass down, a companion piece. You'd threaten to kick him over not savoring it, but the wine they serve here isn't worth savoring.

"Do you have any hobbies?"

"Hobbies?" He seems utterly baffled by the idea.

"You know — things you enjoy. That you do on your off time."

"I think it's so incredibly, endearingly bold of you to assume I have off time." He smiles and then leans his chin on the heel of his hand and makes a show of thinking. "I do enjoy a good game of cards."

"Does that count as a hobby?"

"Why wouldn't it? Not everyone can afford to learn croquet or whatever they teach at Fancy Lads and Lasses School for Fancy Lads and Lasses." That stings — you take a drink of wine to lessen the bruise that puts on your ego, and Jacob visibly softens with an apologetic smile. "Sorry. That was unkind of me."

"No — no, you're right." You look down at your hands, smooth and uncalloused, and rub your thumb against your palm to keep them busy. "I'm coming to learn that the world is very different from what I thought."

You don't know why you said it. Or why Jacob Frye touches his fingertips to yours after a long, pregnant pause. You startle, and you look up to see him with that softened smile.

"It's a lot to take in." He pulls his hand away; you find yourself missing the brush of it. Your fingers curl into your palms of their own accord.

"When did you first learn about all this Assassin and Templar business?" You ask.

"About four minutes after Evie, right out of the womb. We were raised in it. Our parents were both Assassins, so were our grandparents, probably their grandparents too. It's a good thing we keep dying young; otherwise, we'd be twice as inbred as Her Majesty and company." You gasp.

"That is the queen you're insulting!"

"She's a right shit old bird, is what she is," he plants a hand on his chest, looking wounded. "She almost took Evie's knighthood! Because we dared ask politely for her not to steamroll over all India and probably gleefully kick puppies in the process."

"Evie was knighted?"

"Henry and I too, but I didn't want the damn thing."

"You're a knight?" He curls his lip, topping up your glass and sighing. He nods his head as though it's a burden, and you snort into your wine glass. The dismay strangely suits him — he doesn't seem the type to want or even know what to do with a knighthood. You can't imagine him in a suit and medal either, no matter how hard you try.

You're about to ask him what his parents thought about him being here when someone grabs a chair and muscles their way to your table. You're pushed damn near into the wall, scowling and moving if only to keep your wine from spilling. You recognize the idiot who stuck his nose in — his name is Smith, and he's a bastard.

You've had to throw him out of The Establishment more than once; you'd entertain the idea that he has some sort of vendetta against you, but he's not worth the effort of thinking about. He downs his bottle of lager and sits it down onto the table, swaying in his seat. His eyes are bloodshot under the greasy, unwashed blond mop of his hair. He grins at Jacob with all his teeth after he greets him warmly. Loudly.

You cow in the corner as the whole bar turns to look at your table, trying to hide in your skin. For the most part, Jacob seems annoyed. Still, he greets Smith with the impatient smile of a father whose child interrupted an important meeting. You can see a muscle twitch in his cheek when Smith leans on you, his hand wrapping like an uncomfortable snake around your waist.

Your heart freezes, and every muscle you own goes rigid like stone as he spreads his palm over your hip.

"Didn't know you visited the Judies, boss! How much does ol' bookie go for these days? Gold or silver?" You grip your wine glass until your knuckles threaten to split, hot behind the ears as he leans in. His breath smells like a month's worth of stale beer. You fix him with your eye and pull your lip away from your teeth, speaking through a tight jaw. Usually, that is enough to get the handsy ones to back off; not tonight, apparently.

"You know very well that I work the desk. Nothing more, Mr. Smith."

"Yeah, with that stick up your arse, I bet you don't get many Johns. No room." He winks at Jacob, who simply sits and lets you wallow in your misery, the smile gone from his face. You look at him, pleading, as Smith leans even further in and plucks your wine glass out of your hands. You can't move. You can't stop him.

"Aw, c'mon, poppet! Give us a smile." Jacob grits his teeth until his jaw is white, a warning snarl curling his lip away from his teeth.

"That is enough, Smith."

"What? Boss, I'm jus' havin' a little fun. Hazin' the greenies, you know how it is." Smith turns back to you, leering ever closer, the rank of his breath falling across your cheek. "You're having fun, aren't you, darling?" The world melts away, candle wax as his hand travels down to rest on the outside of your thigh. You can only think of Thomas Fucking Morvell. His hand around your waist. It feels so suffocatingly like he's there instead of Smith, and something-

Something in you.

Snaps.

You think you might be seeing yourself outside your body, your hand wrapped around the neck of the beer bottle as you slam the motherfucker into his big mouth. It explodes in a haze of glass. The force pushes him backward, out of the booth, onto the floor, and he covers his bleeding face with his hands and screams, screams, screams.

"You stupid fucking cunt!" Smith wails more obscenities at you, but you aren't listening. Your ears ring. The bottle feels oh-so-right in your hands, perfect. Jacob stands when you do, eyes wide and eyebrows high, but he's not quick enough to stop you from straddling Smith's chest and grabbing his lacerated jaw with your hand. Glass cuts into your fingers. He stares up with one eye swollen shut with blood and the other ballooned in horror. You raise the shattered, razor-sharp bottleneck over your head. You feel like an animal.

You wish you could say something clever — but your teeth are pressed so tightly that your words wither and die at the pass. Smith shrieks when your arm falls towards his eyes in a violent arch.

Aren't you having fun, poppet? Gimme a smile.

Something firm and solid stops your arm and wrenches you up with so much force you spin, and the bestial part of you uses the momentum to try to punch out at whatever's caught you. You've never thrown a punch in your life, but by God, are you going to throw one now. Something grabs that arm too.

You force yourself to refocus, panting hard and covered in blood from a million tiny cuts, splattered in Smith's gore and stale beer.

Jacob is staring at you, holding your wrists tight and firm to keep you from hurting someone else — or yourself. Then, finally, the horror dawns on you that the bar — the entire bar — is staring at you. You drop the bloodied bottleneck; your chest feels like it's going to implode. And yet Jacob keeps staring.

"You," he says, more to himself than you, "are full of so many interesting surprises."

***

You are cleaned up, bandaged, and taken to a private room above the bar. You spend minutes (hours, feels like) pacing. Back, forth — back, forth. You chew at your bandages and lament that your nails are covered, gnashing like a beast to try and bite them to the quick.

When Jacob opens the door, you want to throw yourself at his feet.

"Jacob," your voice wobbles, your breath coming out in short gasps, "I am so, so sorry-" He cuts you off with a raised hand.

"No, I'm sorry."

...What?

Whatever for?

You stare in stunned silence while he rubs the back of his neck. "You were obviously uncomfortable, and he just — kept touching you. And I didn't stop him. I'm sorry."

"You — You told him to stop." You want to laugh. This is a trick — this has to be a trick.

"That is not enough." He sighs. "Considering I know what it feels like." He grimaces at the floor, arms crossed, and you collapse back to sit on the bare mattress, hearing the frame creak its protest under your weight. The two of you exist in oppressive quiet until Jacob pipes up from the door.

"But — that was impressive, back there. And you've shown a lot of initiative and drive these past few months. I think you should join us — the Creed." It sounds like a speech he's rehearsed for months, shocked into pulling it out now at the most inopportune of times. It's damn-near comical, but you can't bring yourself to laugh.

"Again, with your crazy cult of conspiracy theorists." You sag, running a hand over your face. "Fine. I'll join you. What else do I have to lose?" The silence that follows is awkward and strange, so you try to fill it with conversation. "What did you mean when you said you knew what it felt like?" Jacob leans against the wall, watching a patch of the floor behind you with great interest. It takes him a moment to speak, but he sounds distant. Weather vaned to a place in history far away.

"His name was Maxwell Roth."

"The old leader of the Blighters? The one that set fire to the Alhambra?"

"The very same." You try to conjure him in your mind from what you remember. You come up with a shadowed figure in a mask and a cruel grin; you only know that he was much older than the two of you. You pull your knee to your chest and block out the thoughts as Roth slowly mutates into a figure you know far, far too well, and hate far, far too much.

"I'm sorry," you mumble.

"Don't be — it was a lifetime ago."

"A year," you smile; it doesn't reach your eyes. "But those can feel like lifetimes, can't they?"

"Sure as the sun shits gold, are you right." He moves to sit beside you, his hands folded between his knees, back bent. "He — I loved him. At least I think I did, afterward. After he died. He'd call me darling and my dear, and he made me feel so — so damn good about myself — all the things I'd accomplished like I was special. But I think we both loved a man who was," he trails off, trying so hard to find the words. You finish for him, hauntingly familiar with the feeling.

"Different from who the real man was," you say. "You loved the image you had in your head." And afterward, Jacob fell in love with the nostalgia.

"Right." He pauses and then coughs, the tips of his ears red. "We never had sex. I mean, afterward, shit — yeah, there were men. But for Roth and me — he was just touchy-feely. I thought I didn't mind then, but looking back on it now…" You feel nausea coil in your stomach; it's like looking in a mirror.

You never would have known. Or maybe he's just not as broken as you.

But to hear that you're not alone — you can find some measure of comfort in that, even if you're horrified to see your doppelganger sitting by you. You ask Jacob if Evie knows — she doesn't. She never will, if he has anything to say about it; all she knows is that something changed when he killed Roth, maybe for better or maybe for worse.

You don't know what to do — so you hesitantly lean against him, hoping that you're a comforting weight. He lets you. You stare straight ahead to keep from crumpling like a paper crane.

"I'm glad you said yes," he says. "This isn't — it's not a life I ask you to join lightly."

"What do I have to lose?" You repeat yourself, finally feeling brave enough to glance up, watching Jacob light a match and catch fire to the end of a cigar — the same one he's been smoking for a week, you realize. He must be saving it. "Does your mother know you smoke those things?" Not that it'd make much of a stir — they're meant to be healthy for the lungs anyhow. It's just unfortunate about the smell.

"Didn't know her," he says, almost as a throwaway comment as he takes a deep drag of smoke. You jolt, the shock of it filling your bones. "What?"

"Nothing," you say, fiddling with the selvage of your bandages. "I simply realized that we have much more in common than I thought."

#dig yourself a hole #ac syndicate #jacob frye #m #general #multichapter #i will say. you DO get to hit someone in the face with a beer bottle in this one #catharsis <3

7 notes · View notes

bitletsanddrabbles · 4 years

Text

WIP Wednesday, Morning Edition

Since a good portion of my vacation was dedicated to doll customization, there will be a second one of these later, after I’ve snapped some in-progress pictures. For now, though, for my usual Downton audience, a longer-than-usual chunk from one of my novels-in-progress.

I thoroughly blame @alex51324 for writing the wonderful “Jeeves and the Inferior Valet” and thus introducing me to Wodehouse. While this isn’t in anyway related to that fic, other than the obvious subject matter, I feel that is absolutely credit that should be given. I’ve been working on this piece, off and on, for a couple of years now. If we all live to be 90, you may get to read it complete! As it is, I’m trying to nudge it along right now, so here, have the opening:

It seems to me that one must never be too glad to be alive. That is to say, whenever one is feeling his best, his most topping self, Fate seems to take it as a personal affront and sets about correcting things. On the morning of which I speak, I woke perfectly refreshed. I felt so all together zippy that if someone had barged into my bedroom and insisted on a conversation before I’d downed a single cup of tea, I might well have nearly managed. The weather was clement and with the help of a horse named Dark Secret who had managed a rather impressive win the day before, so was my bank account. Of course, a Wooster never has much to worry about when it comes to affording life’s niceties, but it is always nice to come out on the proper side of these things. Yes, it was with this sunny outlook on life that I applied myself to breakfast and was tucking into the eggs and b. when Jeeves appeared with two clouds to shadow my good cheer.

“Mrs. Travers called earlier, sir,” he informed me.

“Aunt Dahlia?” The news was somewhat surprising, I admit, but no cause for alarm. After all, Aunt Dahlia is my good aunt. That is to say, my better aunt. That is to say the aunt who isn’t Aunt Agatha who could turn a gorgon to stone with her glare and is forever trying to shackle me with a job or a wife, preferably both. “What does she want?”

“As the owner and editor of Milady's Boudoir, she has been invited to spend the weekend in Yorkshire at the estate of the Earl of Grantham,” Jeeves reported dutifully. “The Earl’s younger daughter, the Marchioness of Hexham, runs the Sketch and has apparently organized a small gathering of women in the profession.”

“Hexham?” The Woosters might be gentlemen, but none of us can boast of hobnobbing with the upper echelons of the peerage. Once you get past the honorable misses and misters, we find ourselves a bit outclassed, no matter how noble our hearts. Still, one hears of people, in the right circles, and nothing I’d heard about the Marquess of Hexham had lead me to believe he’d be married before the age of sixty, and then under great protest. “When did the Marquess of Hexham find time to get married? Isn’t he the one who’s always off in Tangiers?”

“That was the previous Lord Hexham,” Jeeves corrected my error. “If you’ll recall sir, he died last year. Malaria, I believe.”

“Oh, that’s right. Dashed sorry to hear that.” Admittedly, I never actually met the man in my life, but there are some things you simply feel sorry about. Forgetting someone has died is one of them.

“He was quite well liked in certain circles and will be missed. His cousin, the current Marquess, was married this past December.”

Clearly I was on the right page now, but something still seemed a bit rummy about it. “But isn’t the family home in Northumberland? Why wouldn’t the Marchioness have it there?”

“I have no idea, sir.”

The only thing I could think of was that the size of the building was more accommodating to the cause. “I can’t imaging an Earl having a grander house than a Marquess.”

“It would seem odd, sir.”

“Still, I suppose if you’re a Marchioness who wants to have a to-do at her father’s house, and he’s only an Earl, you can jolly well do as you please and not much he can do about it, what?”

“I would imagine so, yes sir. Whatever the lady’s reasoning for the location, Mr. Travers has been taken ill, and so Mrs. Travers would like you to come with her to help make up the numbers at dinner.”

“That is straight out,” I replied, with a fair amount of relief. I like Aunt Dahlia well enough, but spending more time with her than it takes to enjoy a dinner from her French chef Anatole is generally courting disaster. A fellow could easily find himself in chokey for the theft of a cow creamer, for instance. “I have a very important dinner at the Drone’s club tomorrow night and it is imperative I don’t miss it.”

“Very good, sir. Mrs. Gregson also called.”

“Aunt Agatha?” I nearly choked on a piece of bacon. The day suddenly seemed less sunny. That is to say, while the first cloud didn’t look so alarming, this one promised rain, thunder, and possibly a lightening strike or two. “And the purpose of her call?” I asked, once I’d cleared the old palate.

“She wishes you to have dinner with her tonight,” Jeeves replied, making it seem like a remarkably mundane event. Meals with Aunt Agatha are never mundane, and not because she has an extraordinary French chef. Her chef is of the perfectly ordinary, English variety. “Apparently there is a young lady by the name of the right Honorable Miss Proops she believes you should meet.”

If there is any announcement perfectly calculated to make the Wooster blood run cold, it’s hearing that Aunt Agatha wants me to meet a young lady. The woman is determined to see me married off and churning out offspring like crumpets from a bakery. I hardly see why since she makes no attempt to disguise the fact she doesn’t like me. I’d think she’d prefer me to die a childless bachelor, rather than populating the world with little Bertrams. What’s worse, she seems to think I should be attached to an ‘improving’ sort of woman, the sort that keeps up on Freud and the other philosophers and carries on the sort of academic conversation one avoided at Oxford. “Grim business, Jeeves. Very grim.”

“I can not imagine it would be a pleasant evening for you, sir.”

“No, not pleasing in the least. Especially since there is only one reason that Aunt Agatha ever wants me to meet a Miss anyone. If I’m not careful, I’ll be engaged by the dessert course. ” I prodded at my e., suddenly devoid of appetite. “Still, I daren’t not attend, not without jolly good reason. What do you suggest?” I gave him my most imploring look. If ever I was in need of that amazing brain of his, it was now.

“I would suggest you go to Yorkshire with Mrs. Travers, sir,” Jeeves replied with a promptness that bespoke forethought. I began to suspect he’d presented the phone calls to me in the order he did for a purpose, and I was soon to be proven correct. “Since you learned of her offer first, Mrs. Gregson can, with a reasonable amount of truthfulness, be told it was a previous engagement. It has the further advantage of being well away from London and, according to an acquaintance of mine who happens to live in the very village we will be visiting, has lovely weather this time of year.”

“The old Metrop. does get a bit oppressive around this season,” I agreed, quickly warming to the idea. There was still only one point of hesitation. “This Earl, though. He doesn’t happen to collect antique silver, does he?”

“No sir. Lord Grantham is known for collecting snuff boxes, which none of your family is interested in, and favors Labradors over terriers for canine companionship. Also, his two living daughters are both safely married.”

I needed no further convincing. “Right-ho, Jeeves! Call Aunt Dahlia and let her know we’d be delighted to accompany her. Then pack my cases for the country. This will be a perfect chance to wear my new tie!”

“Not the Macclesfield, sir, surely.”

I did not like the tone in which he said that. Largely, I have come to accept Jeeves’s view on the contents of my wardrobe, hidebound as it is, but there are days it seems he’s going absolutely backwards. “And what’s wrong with it?”

“While it is a fine tie in many regards, it does not suite your complexion-.”

“Hang my complexion, Jeeves,” I countered gamely, before he could add his customary ‘sir’. “Every once in awhile a man’s complexion needs something new, something zippy to shake it up.” He looked ready to protest, so I fixed him with my steeliest gaze. Absolutely unbendable. “I will wear it, Jeeves!”

“Very good, sir.”

As he was turning to leave, a thought occurred to me. “By the way, you said Lord Grantham’s two living daughters were married. Has he any others?”

“His Lordship’s youngest daughter, Mrs. Sybil Branson nee Crawley, died in childbirth back in 1920. Her husband, Mr. Branson, lives at Downton with his in-laws.”

“Ah. Good to know.” Storing that information away in my head as something not to bring up over dinner, I turned my attention to finishing my breakfast.

So there you go! The suitably improbable intro! At least, I feel it’s pretty durn unlikely, even before the movie, that Edith would hold a writer’s conference at Downton, or if she did that she’d invite Aunt Dahlia, etc. But this isn’t about realism, it’s about having an excuse to write Bertie being an idiot and Thomas being a snark face in the same story. Who says you can’t have everything?

In other news, I fully understand why Wodehouse spent so much time writing Jeeves and Wooster stories. Bertie’s a blast!

#downton abbey #jeeves and wooster #p.g. wodehouse #crossover #fanfiction #crossover fanfiction #wip wednesday #bertie wooster #reginald jeeves

13 notes · View notes

just-random-obsessions · 4 years

Text

Funny Moments In Thor The Dark World

Find Thor 1 here

Find Avengers 1 here

This is the second part of me watching all three thor movies and the avengers movie and comparing the humor pre-ragnarok to the humor in the 3rd Thor movie. And, as before, I’m writing this on my computer where the I and U keys don’t work so sorry for any spelling mistakes.

Tag List: @nikkoliferous @fyrecrafted @lokijiro @miskiett @darthxerik @icyxmischief @iamanartichoke @juliabohemian @official-and-unstable-satan @melodylnoelle @just-another-human-2019 @fandomsfanfiction @mentallydatingahotcelebrity @cateyes315 @burningarbiterheart @imnotacreepijustlikeyou @usedtobegoodfriend96 @alexakeyloveloki

Official-and-unstable-satan and fandomsfanfiction weren’t tagged sry

Anyone who wants to be added/removed to the tag list please let me know! and if I missed someone please also let me know. Sorry this post is so long

~ “Hello Mother. Have I made you proud?”

~ “Please don’t make things worse” “Define worse”

~ “I really don’t see what all the fuss is about”

~ “Just like you”

~ *That smile!!!!*

~ “I’ve got this completely under control!” “Is that why everything’s on fire?”

~ *About the Scary MonsterTM: “All yours”

~ *Thor says hi to the Big Scary MonsterTM*

~ “I accept your surrender”

~ “Anyone else?” *All the people simultaneously: NOPE*

~ “Perhaps next time we should START with the big one”

~ *Odin obviously shipping Thor and Jane* (idk I got a kick out of this)

~ *Jane awkwardly avoiding her date*

~ *Date: hi*

~ *Him awkwardly talking about his ex*

~ “And the fact that she kept sleeping with other men” “NO!”

~ *Darcy being mistaken for a waitress*

~ *Darcy mouthing “Cute” to Jane about Richard*

~ *Darcy embarrassing Jane by talking about Thor*

~ “Is there a point to all of this cause there REALLY needs to be a point to all of this”

~ “That’s what I said!”

~ “That’s what I did!”

~ “He’s not interested” “I’m interested” (Am I the only one who feels like his awkwardness was actually kinda cute?)

~ “He’s my intern.” “You have an intern?”

~ *Intern is fucking adorable like Richard*

~ “I have totally mastered driving in London!” *Has not mastered it at all*

~ *Selvig running around Stonehenge naked*

~ *Darcy keeps calling Ian ‘Intern’*

~ *Darcy calls Jane cause she didn’t wanna shout*

~ God I fucking love Darcy she’s so criminally underrated

~ “I am not getting stabbed in the name of science”

~ “It’s okay, we’re Americans!” “Is that supposed to make them like us?”

~ “We’re scientists-well I am” “Thanks”

~ “That doesn’t seem right”

~ “I wanna throw something! Jane give me your shoe!”

~ *Jane ignores Darcy*

~ “Give me your shoe”

~ “Were those the car keys?”

~ *Ian’s face when he realizes he threw the car keys to another planet*

~ *If you have to bury so many people then you’re doing something wrong you hot dumb fuck* (I mean that’s basically what Heimdall said right?)

~ “Typical” *after being left behind while Jane goes to talk to her boyfriend*

~ *Jane! Love of my life and most talented and beautiful person in the world oh how I love yo-SLAP*

~ “As excuses go, its not terrible”

~ “I know” “You do?” “Do what?”

~ *Darcy interrupts the KissTM*

~ “Um I’m pretty sure we are getting arrested”

~ “How’s space?” “Space is fine”

~ “He’s my intern… My intern’s intern”

~ “Holy shit!” (after Jane went up in the Bifrost)

~ *Heimdall calmly dodges the car*

~ “We have to do that again”

~ “Hello”

~ “What’s that?”

~ “It’s a soul forge” *No I’m pretty sure that’s a quantum field generator*

~ *Jane being ready to fight Odin for comparing her to a goat*

~ “You told your dad about me?”

~ “It must be so inconvenient, them asking about me day and night”

~ “Please meet my mother” *Jane shies away from Thor*

~ Loki casually tossing the thingamajig in the air like the cute little shit he is

~ Lord, he’s so damn pretty

~ *Kurse being like: Lol I ain’t touchin’ that boy with a ten foot pole*

~ “It’s as if they resent being in prison”

~ “There’s no pleasing some creatures”

~ *Loki calmly reading a book while all Hel breaks loose*

~ “You have my word that no harm will come to yo-” nvm bitch die

~ *THAT look between Sif and Jane*

~ *Frigga immediately seeing through Odin’s bs lies*

~ *Heimdall: I have defeated the big space ship!! The bigger one behind him: Bitch you thought*

~ “WITCH!!!!” *Now I know who Loki gets his amazing aforementioned smile from*

~ *Selvig using shoes to explain complicated science*

~ *Selvig then using pencils*

~ “Any questions?” “Yeah, can I have my shoe back?”

~ “What’s SHIELD?” “It’s a secret”

~ *Darcy’s cute af face when she sees that Selvig is in the mental hospital*

~ “Are you sure you wouldn’t just rather punch your way out?”

~ *Loki shapeshifting into the guard*

~ “Mmm Brother, you look ravishing”

~ “Costumes a bit much”

~ “So tight!”

~ “I can FEEL the righteousness surging!!”

~ “HEY wanna have a rousing discussion about truth?”

~ “Honor?”

~ “Patriotism?”

~ “GOD BLESS AMERICA!”

~ “At last. A little common sens-”Bitch are you really fucking kidding me? (What do you mean that’s not what he said?)

~ “I thought you liked tricks”

~ “I’m Loki, you may have heard of-” SLAP

~ “That was for New York”

~ “I like her”

~ *Loki gazing lovingly at Jane in the background*

~ “Betray him, and I’ll kill you.” “It’s good to see you too Sif”

~ “If you even think about betraying him-” “You’ll kill me? Evidently there will be a line”

~ “I thought you said you knew how to fly this thing.” “I said how hard can it be?”

~ “Whatever your doing brother I suggest you do it faster.” “Shut up Loki

~ “You must’ve missed something.” “I didn’t, I’m pressing every button on this thing”

~ “Well don’t hit it. Just press it, gently.” “I aM pReSsInG iT gEnTlY AND ITS NOT WORKING!!!”

~ *Thor starts slamming buttons and it starts working*

~ *Volstagg: Oh fighting is much fun- OH SHIT IM FALLING!! HELP!!!*

~ “I think you missed a column.” “Shut up”

~ “Why don’t you let me take over? I’m clearly the best pilot”

~ *Bitch I’m the one who can actually fly*

~ “Oh dear. Is she dead?”

~ *Thor knocks over a column* “Not a word”

~ “Now they’re following us”

~ “Now they’re firing at us”

~ “Yes thank you for the commentary Loki, it’s not at all distracting”

~ “Well done, you just decapitated your grandfather”

~ *Seriously, whoever wrote the escape scene is a genius!!!*

~ *Loki yelling at Thor about how thIs was a bad idea you dumb fuck- wait wtf are you doing AAAAHHHHH!!!!1*

~ “You lied to me. I’m impressed”

~ *That smile again snfnejaihfeqrqrsbdsalxdjewonjfeq*

~ “For Asgard!” YEET

~ “Nothing personal boys!”

~ “If it were easy, everyone would do it”

~ “Are you mad?” “Possibly”

~ “TADAAA”

~ “Oh yeah, my father. Eric Selvig”

~ “And these” “yeah… those”

~ “How did you find me?” “You were naked on television”

~ “I don’t get paid enough. I don’t get paid at all”

~ “What’s happening? Birds? Birds are happening?”

~ “All right are you ready?” “I am”

~ *phone rings* “It’s not me”

~ “Why are there so many shoes in here?”

~ “I’ll just text her”

~ “So who’s Richard?”

~ *Thor hanging his hammer on a coat hanger*

~ “Where are your pants?” “Oh he says it helps him think”

~ “Loki is dead” “Oh thank God!”

~ “Better get my pants”

~ “Do you even know what these things do?” “No” “…Neither do I”

~ “Ooh get the guy with the sword!”

~ “Oops”

~ *Ian’s high-pitched scream*

~ *Does car insurance cover My Car Was Sucked Into Another Planet Due To A Cosmic Event That Only Occurs Once Every 5000 Years or no?*

~ *Thor and Malekith fighting between worlds and poor little Mjolnir trying to keep up*

~ *The two of them against windows*

~ *AAAHHH*

~ *Awww! Look at the cute little Jotunheim monster! He’s so adorable I wanna pet him so much!’

~ *Darcy and Ian kissing after he saved her life*

~ “Darcy?” “Jane!” “Ian?” “Selvig.”

~ “Myuh Myuh!!”

~ *Thor ends up on the subway*

~ *The girl taking 50 photos*

~ *Thor and the woman colliding into eachother*

~ “I’ve come to accept your surrender”

~ *Malekith gets crushed by his own ship. Now that’s some lovely karma right there*

~ *Darcy and Ian go back to kissing*

~ “He kinda committed treason on our way out” oops

~ Jotunheim Puppy chasing birds

Wow I’m so sorry this was so long. But guess what? It’s gonna get even longer. Sorry, again.

So one of the differences between the first and second Thor movies is that Thor 2 has humor in the climax whereas Thor 1 doesn’t. This is because of the differences with who is the villain. In Thor 1, Thor is having to fight his brother. To quote Avengers, they “played together and fought together” for several millennia. Of course there’s not going to be any humor in it cause there shouldn’t be. The climax at the end of the movie isn’t supposed to be some epic battle between the forces of Good TM and Bad TM. It’s supposed to be tragic that he’s having to fight his own brother because Loki lost his mind due to so many factors. The last joke in the film is “You’re an amazon liar brother, always have been” “It’s good to have you back”. There’s nothing else till the end credit scene. That’s because Kenneth Branagh knew that this was supposed to be viewed at as being sad a hopeless, not some awesome upbeat battle.

Thor 2 on the other hand, is exactly that. Thor has known Malekith for.. what? 2 days? Maybe 3? His relationship and dynamic with Malekith is different than with his brother. To Thor, this is just another enemy attacking Asgard. And I’m not sure whether this was intentional or not (because I remember reading somewhere how Allen Taylor had a bitch of a time in the editing process so I think the movie came out different than he intended) but the lack of any personal relationship will Malekith means the film can make really funny jokes and still have it fit with the film. If anything, I might even argue that the humor helped the film to maintain a very nice positive vibe. Idk I can’t think of the right words to explain it but the jokes actually fit the film very well.

However, then we move on to Ragnarok. With Ragnarok, Thor is fighting his sister. While (just like Malekith) he has only known her for two days, that still doesn’t take away the fact that he is having to fight his sibling. And I’m not a film director but if I had the option of approaching this situation and taking it the Thor 1 route or the the Thor 2 route, I’d go with Thor 1. Because it’s actually incredibly tragic that Hela has been driven to insanity like Loki (though ok a different level) due to Odin’s shitty parenting. She is the horrible way she is because Odin made her that way. And that could’ve been an AMAZINGLY complex story with the audience feeling so much sympathy for Hela like we did with Loki in Thor 1, but the narrative just falls flat for two reasons. 1) Taika admitted he didn’t want the film to be emotionally complex so 2) The humor in the climax completely detracts from the seriousness of the situation.

Also, some side notes: Yes, this is edited from the original. I accidentally deleted everything and then had to go back and add everything back in. So I also had to re-tag people too. And I also added a bit more explanation at the end. I meant to do so when I originally posted but it never got done till now. Sry. Also sry that it’s so long

#dr badass jane foster #anti ragnarok #anti thor ragnarok #my meta #thor the dark world #thor 2 #thor #loki

83 notes · View notes

fortunatelylori · 4 years

Note

This is a long one: having read all of the sympathetic and convincing Sidney Parker posts here, I am wonder if you’re letting Sidney off a little too easily? It seems to me that no matter how much he may want to find love (as has been so eloquently argued here), he has not yet learned true selfless love imo. His half proposal is a point in case. Consider the comparison with Babbers.

Sidney: “What a brute I was… I hope that I am a different man now… If I have changed at all it is in no small part to you. I have never wanted to put myself in someone else’s power before. I have never wanted to care for anyone but myself.”Lord B: “My dear girl don’t you know that I am in love with you… It’s enough that you like me and that you trust me…I have no wish to own you…i want to make you happy. I could never try to lead or constrain you, Esther. All I ask is to walk through life by you

I know he was just getting warmed up, but Sidney’s expression of love is still very firmly about his own development and his own realisation, while Babs’s expression of love is very much about what he hopes to give, and what it means to love. Sidney’s growth arc is incomplete and he still hasn’t fully earned Charlotte, whom Rose Williams has made so generous, brave and loveable. You have already pointed out that this is the midway point in the story, and I completely agree.

But I would love to hear your thoughts on how this circle can be squared: Are we supposed to think that Sidney has done something noble by pimping himself out to Eliza Campion for the sake of his feckless brother and disappointing and destroying his own happiness and, more importantly by JA rules, that of a young inexperienced woman whom he has publicly shouted at, exposed himself to, felt up, kissed, and half proposed to?

Andrew Davies has put Sidney in a hell of a bind: If he breaks it off with Eliza now, he’s a dishonourable cad. If Eliza breaks it off with him, Charlotte looks like second prize to his first great love in the world’s eyes. If he marries Eliza and she dies and he runs back to Charlotte, how can we expect Char to enter that “river” again?

The only comparable situation in JA is Elinor Dashwood and Edward Ferrars, and Edward’s honour was completely intact throughout: his secret engagement occurred when he was young and naïve; he retreated from Elinor once he realised he loved her before more damage was done; he stuck by the loathsome Miss Steele once their engagement was public despite wanting Elinor; Miss Steele throws him over for his brother making clear that she was only ever interested in money and feelings were not at stake.

By contrast, Sidney has broken the heart of an intelligent and worthy young woman for a venal and loveless marriage, though the cynical “bargain” seems to be that he try to love Eliza. Ugh. Badly done, Sidney! How can we redeem Sidney to the point of making him worthy of St. Charlotte? How can he be extricated from this mess without losing his honour and without making Charlotte suffer any further?I would love to see Charlotte released from the passivity she has been forced into here.

She has been robbed of any agency after being established as an active character – a toiler and a spinner. Perhaps she will concoct a way to save Sidney’s soul behind the scenes, showing him in the process what true selfless love looks and feels like. I have a weird feeling that in one episode someone said something like “Men need to be helped without ever knowing they’re being helped…” or something similar. That’s coming back to me now – maybe that’s the only direction this can take:

Charlotte orchestrates Sidney’s rescue with the help of Lady S and the Prince Regent and then retreats back to Heraclitus and rabbit hunting in Willingden, where Sidney comes to find her. After a spot of grovelling and sexy scything in the fields to show that he is not just a dandy city boy but a man of substance, he will win back our Charlotte. Whew! sorry forth long one, had to get it off my chest. Now, about that GOT ending…

Hey there!

Whew … that was INTENSE! Lol … I hope you really meant it when you said you wanted my thoughts on this take because you’re going to get them and …. I don’t think you’re going to like them.

So here goes nothing … I’m going to break this down into topics because your messages covers a lot of ground.

Firstly, the issue of selfless love:

When I was much, much, MUCH younger that I am now, I watched a little movie called Love Story (1970). This film was essentially The Notebook of my mother’s generation. And the most famous line in that film is:

Jenny: Love means never having to say you're sorry

The main female character is standing in the freezing cold with no way to enter her apartment because her husband got pissed off at her and bolted. And that’s what comes out of her mouth … Because love is selfless, right? You don’t need to apologize for anything EVER because love means never having to say you’re sorry.

Let me tell you something: THAT IS COMPLETE AND UTTER BULLSHIT! Anyone who believes romantic love should be selfless needs to reevaluate. The belief in selfless romantic love will not help anyone find that kind of love (because it doesn’t exist). What it will do is that it will allow that person to be prayed on by fuck bois/fuck girls everywhere because you are going to continually excuse their behavior … because you have to love them unconditionally, right? WRONG!

Selfless love is acceptable only in a parent-child dynamic. That’s it! As Cersei would put it:

Cersei: On that front, a mother has no choice

Romantic love is very much conditional on treatment, involvement and attraction. When it isn’t, that’s fertile ground for abuse.

You think this is romantic?

Babington: My dear girl, don’t you know that I am in love with you?

Esther: And what is that to me since I do not love you?

Babington: I don’t care. It’s enough that you like me and that you trust me.

What happens six months down the line when Babs catches Esther having sex with Edward in their marital bed? Do you think he’s still not going to care she doesn’t love him back? What Babington is doing in his proposal is lying to himself. No person who has ever been in love ever genuinely does not care if the object of his affection loves him back. We all want to be loved back. We pretend we don’t because we’re so desperate to have that person that we think we’re able to live without it or, most likely, because we think we can talk them round into loving us.

To be clear, I don’t think Esther will cheat on Babington with Edward. But you can bet your bottom dollar Edward will be coming back into her life in season 2 and that she won’t be over him. Guess who will get his heart put through the ringer?

Sidney’s proposal, on the other hand, is very much how an adult should suggest a lifelong commitment to another adult.

Sidney: If I have changed at all, it’s in no small part down to you. I have never wanted to put myself in someone else’s power before. I’ve never wanted to care for anyone but myself.

In his speech what Sidney is laying out is the following: I am well aware I have issues and that we’ve clashed around those issues time and time again. I am committing myself to fixing them because you make me want to do better. I have trust issues but you make me want to hand you my heart because I know you won’t hurt me. I want to share my life with you and make your needs a priority in my life because you make me less selfish.

I’m sorry … but I’ll take Sidney’s proposal over Babington’s any day of the week because Sidney has a plan for our future (lol) while Babington knows I don’t love him but he is so blinded by infatuation that he can’t see he’s promising something he can’t deliver on … and most crucially no one should deliver on.

Sidney’s growth arc is incomplete and he still hasn’t fully earned Charlotte, whom Rose Williams has made so generous, brave and loveable.

I agree that Sidney’s arc is incomplete but so is Charlotte’s. She’s not fully come into her own either and this isn’t a matter of one character being flawless while the other has to work his way to her perfection.

Sidney doesn’t need to earn Charlotte because Charlotte is not a possession, she’s a person and Sidney is not some lecherous monster that needs to go through the 7 circles of hell in order to “earn” anything. Sidney and Charlotte are two people that have had some conflicts but nothing truly disastrous (until Sidney proposes to Eliza, that is) and in which they both have had their share of blame. It’s not like Sidney has been the sole aggressor in all of this. Charlotte has insulted him and mocked him in an assortment of ways.

In the end they have chosen to put those differences aside and have come together with a new understanding of who the other person is. They’ve chosen to love each other and accept each other’s flaws. There is no discrepancy in worth between the two of them that needs to be addressed by Sidney.

What should happen in a potential season 2 is that he will need to rebuild Charlotte’s trust after breaking it with his engagement to Eliza. But that discussion is separate since his initial proposal comes before the Tom Parker realizes he doesn’t have insurance debacle.

Are we supposed to think that Sidney has done something noble by pimping himself out to Eliza Campion for the sake of his feckless brother and disappointing and destroying his own happiness and, more importantly by JA rules, that of a young inexperienced woman whom he has publicly shouted at, exposed himself to, felt up, kissed, and half proposed to?

I think what we’re supposed to take from Sidney’s decision to sacrifice his happiness to help his brother is that his “outlier” facade was just that … a façade. Beneath all that is a man who is willing to go to extremes for the people he cares about. I also think that it shows Sidney, despite his outward confidence, doesn’t really love himself that much.

You’re making the mistake of assuming Sidney’s decision to marry Eliza is a rejection of Charlotte. I wouldn’t blame Charlotte for thinking it but we have a 360 view of the story that she doesn’t have the luxury of having.

We know Sidney loves her. We know he is heartbroken at having to let her go. But he doesn’t want his brother to go to jail and he has only 1 week to figure out a way out of the hole Tom has dug himself into. I’m pretty sure Eliza was the last option on the list of things Sidney tried to do in order to help his brother.

As for your implication that Sidney somehow dishonored Charlotte, it’s pretty obvious from the tone of the show that the whole “there always has to be a chaperone” and “no kissing before marriage” etc. are not rules they are choosing to include in their version of the regency. Charlotte leaves Sanditon with her reputation intact. It is her heart that is broken and I’d be willing to bet that in Sidney’s mind, he has already convinced himself that she will recover very quickly while he will be in pain for the rest of his life. Because … as I’ve said … he doesn’t love himself enough to realize just how much Charlotte loves him.

If he breaks it off with Eliza now, he’s a dishonourable cad. If Eliza breaks it off with him, Charlotte looks like second prize to his first great love in the world’s eyes. If he marries Eliza and she dies and he runs back to Charlotte, how can we expect Char to enter that “river” again? The only comparable situation in JA is Elinor Dashwood and Edward Ferrars, and Edward’s honour was completely intact throughout

I’m not sure what your point is here? For starters, who cares what “the world” thinks? Charlotte will know that Sidney loves her and only her and that his engagement with Eliza was an act of desperation on his part. And so will we, the viewers, because and I quote:

Sidney: I don’t love her, you know.

Charlotte and Sidney’s situation is exactly the same as Eleanor and Edward’s, with the exception that Sidney didn’t flirt with Charlotte and almost proposed to her while being engaged to someone else the way Edward does.

And if we are going to take “the world’s” opinion into account, I’m pretty sure people very much speculated that Edward was nursing a broken heart over the woman for whom he risked everything, was disinherited and that abandoned him to marry his brother. After all why else would he retreat to the countryside and marry the almost old maid with no fortune, Eleanor Dashwood? See how you can spin anything into something negative if you want to?

How can we redeem Sidney to the point of making him worthy of St. Charlotte?

Sigh … Sidney has always been worthy of Charlotte. He is a good man ... with great AAAABBBSSSS. And while Charlotte getting her heart broken is deeply sad, I think it’s safe to say it’s Sidney that has gotten the truly shitty end of the stick. He has tied himself to a woman whom he does not love and who treats him like he’s her dog.

I don’t think people realize just how hopeless his situation is. It’s not like if he marries Eliza, he can get a divorce a few years down the line. He is stuck with the woman who betrayed him 10 years ago for the rest of his life. And he’s in this situation not even because of his own venal desires or greed. He’s in it to save his brother … a brother that will probably ruin himself regardless. That kind of thing eats at a person.

Charlotte’s state, on the other hand, is not permanent. I’m not trying to minimize her pain. Heartbreak is horrible and deeply traumatizing. But as everyone who has gone through it can tell you, it eventually goes away. You recover, you move on.

I don’t think she will need to go through the entire letting go process because she and Sidney will be reunited and everything will work out for the best but if she had to, she would go through it and come out the other side even stronger than she is now.

I would love to see Charlotte released from the passivity she has been forced into here. She has been robbed of any agency after being established as an active character – a toiler and a spinner. Perhaps she will concoct a way to save Sidney’s soul behind the scenes, showing him in the process what true selfless love looks and feels like.

See … this is confusing to me. On the one hand you think Sidney isn’t worthy of Charlotte, on the other you want her to save him. I would suggest it’s not Charlotte’s job to extract Sidney from the shitty situation he’s in. He has to do that for himself.

As for Charlotte being robbed of agency … what’s that even based on? What was she supposed to do in that situation? It’s not like there’s 80.000 pounds hidden under the Heywood family tree that Lassie can dig up …

After a spot of grovelling and sexy scything in the fields to show that he is not just a dandy city boy but a man of substance, he will win back our Charlotte

And this is the part where you truly lost me … As a born and bred city girl, with a generational line of city dwellers dating back centuries, I will have you know I have SUBSTANCE, ok?!?! I have many, many substances … I’m oh so substantiated and stuff.

All joking aside, why does Sidney need to prove that he is a man of substance? What the hell has he done to make anyone assume he isn’t?

I guess in the end our conflicting views come from our perceptions of Sidney as a person. I don’t think Sidney is a bad boy that needs to be redeemed through his love for Charlotte. I think he has always been a good man who is trying to do his best for those around him, who has had to deal with some pretty shitty situations in his life and who is involved in at least one toxic relationship (with his brother). In addition to that, he has a self-destructive streak (people who get dumped don’t necessarily react to it by setting fire to their whole lives and almost dying in the process) which makes it easy for him to prioritize Tom’s well-fare over his own life.

The reason why he falls so deeply in love with Charlotte is because she offers him a real chance of breaking out of those patterns and being able to be seen and loved for who he is. The problem is that toxic past relationships are still very much encroaching on his ability to move on with his life in a healthy way.

In order to break free, what Sidney needs isn’t to be saved. What he needs is to put a stop to the negative patterns that exist at the core of his relationship with Tom (and Mary by extension) and to put the whole Eliza relationship to rest.

#sanditon #sidlotte #sidney parker #charlotte heywood #sanditon meta

161 notes · View notes

sellyoursoulforagoodfic · 4 years

Text

Mercenary Chapter 7

Maul x reader

Word Count: 1849

Summary: So Qi’ra exists, and you’re not happy about it.

“Dryden Vos is coming tomorrow to introduce us to his new pet,” Maul informed you as soon as he came storming out of the room that housed his holocom.

Earlier that morning, it had been the incessant ringing of that exact holocom that woke the two of you from a peaceful slumber. It was housed in the room immediately next to your bedroom so no one would be able to eavesdrop without having to go through your private quarters. And no one would live through trying to do that. So already, neither of you was in a good mood.

“Why is his pet our problem?” you complained from your place still lounging on the (admittedly luxurious) bed. Making the bedroom as nice as possible was your top priority after security after returning to the fortress on Dathomir. You were not blind enough to miss the way Maul’s eyes trailed up your form, clearly liking the sight of you lying partially exposed on the blood red, satin sheets.

“Apparently, he sees a future for her. He’s been training her in combat, and she’s proven to be quite bloodthirsty.”

“She’s using him,” you deadpanned. “I know her type. She’ll use him for power until she gets the chance to get rid of him; then she’ll kill him.”

“Which is precisely what I said, but he argued that I haven’t met her so I couldn’t know that. According to him, she is a ‘dancer’ while fighting.”

You giggled a little at the way he rolled his eyes while quoting Dryden. “That doesn’t mean she’s not going to kill him one day.”

“If Dryden is that fooled by her, he deserves his fate. We do not have room in this organization for such idiotic behavior.”

“He wouldn’t be the first to have his brain sucked out through his dick by a woman.”

The zabrak raised a brow. “Are you trying to tell me something?”

“Yes, I’ve been fucking you for years just to take your place at the head of an organization that I helped you build.”

“Except you fell for my sparkling personality in the process, and hoped that I’d never find out about your original plan, right?”

“Oh, exactly,” you grinned. “Come here,” you demanded, reaching a hand out towards him.

Entertaining you, he offered one of his hands to you as he stepped forward. “Yes?”

“Tell me, did he realize that you were wearing a bathrobe?”

Maul snorted. “No, he believes that I wear dramatic cloaks like he does.”

“If I recall correctly, you used to wear things like that,” you teased.

“That was a long time ago.”

“So was the last time you laid with me.”

“Now, that is a lie considering that I left you less than twenty minutes ago.”

“See? Forever.”

The next day saw you and Maul in the central area of the fortress, dressed to impress while waiting for Dryden’s ridiculous ship to arrive. Maul was wearing his usual attire: black clothes fit for combat at any moment, lightsaber hanging from his belt. You were in full armor for the first time since you reclaimed the fortress two months prior. Beskar pieces decorated your right shoulder and left thigh--raided from a Mandalorian settlement long ago--while strong, flexible leathers guarded everywhere else. You prioritized mobility with your armor given your fighting style, so full metal like the Mandalorians wouldn’t do. A staff was strapped across your back along with a sniper rifle, a knife at your calf, and a blaster at your hip. This was to be a show of power to an extent; the object of the presentation showing Qi’ra who was truly in charge.

Every other guard was in standard armor derived from a mixture of old Nightbrother and Mandalorian in looks. The people that worked directly under Maul in the fortress were the most trusted in the entirety of Crimson Dawn, and they were sworn to secrecy about the nature of your relationship with him. Neither Dryden or Qi’ra would be seeing any sort of attachment that could be seen as a weakness today.

“Relax,” Maul muttered under his breath after you shifted for the too-many-ith time. “You’re a professional.”

“Yes, but she isn’t. I don’t like the idea of someone like her claiming the same position I hold; makes it seem less . . .” You couldn’t come up with the word.

“She is the bed-warmer and bodyguard to a figurehead. I would hardly call that the same as your position.”

“There are those that would disagree,” you grumbled.

Finally, the door opened, revealing Dryden Vos and an admittedly beautiful woman you assumed to be Qi’ra. She was dressed to impress, that was sure, in a simple yet stunning dark blue dress that looked completely impractical for any sort of combat. Apparently, she assumed that since they were going to visit Dryden’s boss, protection would be insured. Your eyes narrowed when you noticed how her dark eyes trailed over your lover’s frame.

Foolish. Never trust people you haven’t met, and then still don’t trust them.

“Dryden,” Maul greeted cooly, “and Qi’ra, I assume?”

“That she is, a true marvel wouldn’t you say?” Dryden grinned, clearly proud of his second-in-command.

“Beautiful, I’ll give her that,” you decided. You didn’t miss the way Dryden’s facial markings flushed with his anger, but even he wasn’t bold enough to speak out against you. “Matches the rest of your collection.”

“Excuse me, who are you?” You had to respect the level of control she displayed over her facial expressions. “I’m afraid I’ve heard nothing about either of you.”

“Such caution is the reason any of us are alive,” Maul spoke up, glancing at you over his shoulder. The warning in his gaze was clear: ‘calm down.’

“Darling, this is Lord Maul, the true head of Crimson Dawn. I run the face and keep everything clear with the other Syndicates; he provides the backing we need.” You gritted your teeth at Dryden’s overinflation of his job. “This is his bodyguard, Y/N. She’s been in the position for at least as long as I’ve known him. You’ll probably never see him without her.”

“That’s how bodyguards work,” you muttered.

“And she’s worked for me since the Clone Wars,” Maul informed both of the guests. “You’d do well to respect her, and better to get her to train you. Dryden has mentioned that you’ve been training with him.”

“That would be lovely,” Qi’ra said respectfully. “Perhaps while we are here?”

“That is unlikely,” Maul replied. “Your visit was so short-notice that we couldn’t adjust our schedule accordingly. We are leaving in the morning on a business venture.”

You resisted the urge to raise an eyebrow. We don’t have any such plans . . .

“You will stay for dinner, rest here for the night, and be on your way shortly before us.”

“We would love to,” Dryden lied.

Truth be told he and Maul rarely saw eye-to-eye, and it showed at that dinner. While Maul enjoyed decadence in certain areas, Dryden was far too greedy to get along with the zabrak. Dinner was a far more simple affair than any of the parties you had seen on the First Light, you never attended, but you saw the footage for various reasons. The silence was tense. The long table was covered in just enough food for all four of you. You were at Maul’s left hand like always while he was at the head of the table; Dryden was on the end opposite with Qi’ra on his right side.

Telling, was all you could think. If he’s already that comfortable with her, he might be worse off than I thought . . .

Conversation was stilted, but you were hardly surprised. Maul was rarely conversational with other people, so Dryden and Qi’ra entertained themselves by flirting among themselves. As soon as the dinner was over, you and Maul retired to the training room for your nightly sparring session. Feeling particularly malicious, you invited them to watch. The better to show them proof of your prowess.

Once the fight started all thoughts of the onlookers went out the window. The fights were always all-out; neither of you pulled punches, never had. The only thing you were cognizant of was keeping the usual level of flirting through the floor. And based off the split-second glance of Qi’ra’s face you managed to catch while falling, she clearly didn’t expect the zabrak to pull such a cheap move as headbutting you with one of his horns. Dryden apparently wasn’t going full-tilt with her training . . .

By the time you ended the fight (you lost) and called it a night, you were both sporting bloody injuries in various places on top of new bruises. You and Maul escorted the other two to their separate rooms and left them for the night.

“I don’t trust her,” you muttered as you two walked to your rooms.

“You said as much to the idea of her, my dear,” he replied simply. “I didn’t expect you to change your opinion.”

“She’s a presumptuous little snake, and don’t think I missed the way she eyed you up the second she saw you.”

“She would not be stupid enough to try it yet.”

“Yet being the operative word.” You reached the bedroom door. “Goodnight, sir,” you said formally.

Maul’s brows furrowed, but fortunately he was smart enough to catch on quickly. There’s someone watching, he realized. He now sensed Qi’ra’s presence in the Force far too closely to be her in her room. He was mildly impressed that you noticed when he did not; granted it wasn’t that surprising since he was generally distracted when you were around. “Goodnight. Be ready in the morning.”

Qi’ra frowned. She snuck out of her room as soon as your voices sounded like they’d rounded a corner, hoping to gain more information on the pair of you. Unfortunately, all she learned was your distaste for her was genuine and accurate. She lingered long enough to see if you would do anything after he retired, but you simply crossed your arms and waited. A hard life if she remains here all night. Her exhaustion may be my advantage, was what she thought as she slunk back to her room.

As soon as you heard her door shut in the quiet of the hallway, you snapped your fingers. Instantly, another guard took your place. “Keep an eye out for uninvited eyes,” you ordered quietly.

“Yes, ma’am.”

And then you could finally retire.

Upon entering the bedroom, you were greeted by the sight of your lover lying nude among the freshly changed, black silk sheets. Already, he was dozing, giving you ample time to enjoy the site of him relaxed and beautiful in a way he rarely was. As quietly as you could, you stripped down yourself and crawled onto the bed with him. He roused enough to share a sleepy kiss when you pulled the sheet over both of your bodies, but otherwise remained asleep. While you were not content with the whole guests situation, you were more than content with your position and quickly drifted off yourself.

#maul x reader #maul imagine #darth maul x reader #darth maul imagine #star wars imagine #reader insert

53 notes · View notes

writingsoftheunderworld · 4 years

Text

AU - yes! Time Travel -no?

C. 2 here ; C. 1 here; AO3 here. Enjoy!

Chapter 3

Bonnie Bennett had begun her day with a slow calming chant of Don’t let him get to you, her thought firmly centred around one Damon Salvatore, a true thorn in her side since he’d first arrived in town not too long ago. She’d woken up slowly, light filtering through her blinds and shrouding the whole room in a husky shade of caramel, the lingering scent of citrus from the candles burnt the night before giving the room an all to homely feeling. She could hear her dad bustling downstairs, most likely getting some coffee for the road. It was fairly early still, but she had free-period the first half of the day and she was skipping the rest - life ending crises a good enough reason even if Mrs Jason still claimed that unless you were actually dead you had to show up for math class. She laid in bed a few more minutes, listening to her dad get dressed and slip out the door. She wondered for not the first time whether it would be better off if she tried to tell him all about this witch vampire mess again, but Grams had wanted him out of it, and he had wanted out of it after her mom left, so for the thousandth time she put it out of her mind.

She showered, changed and climbed down to get the little mug of coffee her dad always left out for her, dropping more sugar into it than a candy store had on its selves. Elena had once joked that if she didn’t end up making it big she would always work as an oompa-loompa for Willy Wonka for how much sugar she dumped into her coffee each day. Bonnie was still not sure if Elena thought that was just a good joke or if she just hadn’t understood the Chocolate Factory as a child. Caroline just liked to pat her on the shoulder with a wistful look on her face, like she wished she had Bonnie’s devil-may-care attitude about it - which ironically seemed to have not been the case even now as a vampire who ate more than a Quarterback.

The noise of Jeremy knocking on the door startled her out of her thoughts enough to almost spill the coffee on her shirt. Almost being the key word thankfully, so she dropped the mug into the sink and swung her bag over her head and headed for the garage. They were meant to meet Damon on the edge of the former Salvatore Estate, just off of the main road, by the woods, from where he’d then show her where the former Salem witches had been burned some centuries ago and where the Founders had burned Emily as well. Klaus was a threat hanging over their head constantly at this point.

On their way Jeremy began telling her about Isobel’s impromptu visit earlier this morning and how poor Aunt Jenna had locked herself in her room following it. Bonnie felt sorry for the woman, she definitely didn’t deserve to be lied to like that, but Bonnie also felt that telling her the whole truth would’ve been equally unfair. The least Alaric could’ve done was say that his wife was missing rather than dead, but that was none of her business at the end of the day. They talked some more as they waited, they’d arrived a bit early after all, and Bonnie realised once again just how different Jeremy now was, and how nice it was to see him so invested in her. She wasn’t sure yet if she actually liked him like that, but she definitely could imagine how sweet and thoughtful he’d be as a boyfriend. And she needed someone frankly. Seeing Elena with her two Salvatore’s bending over backwards to rescue her from any and every inconvenience and now Caroline complaining about having been kissed by both Matt and Tyler made her frustrated. Less so for the fighting over her situation, that sounded exhausting, but rather for the constant work she had to put into herself to even be noticed. Maybe she should move for college, she had a feeling Virginia might be part of the problem here as well, though she did find it hilarious how both Matt and Tyler had initially dated her before either moved on to Elena or Caroline. Then it just made her sad. Was it something about her that pushed them away?

She remembered with sudden clarity asking that to her Grams and the hour long lecture following her words, of how she was a strong woman, how boys wouldn’t be able to handle someone like her until later, how she should still enjoy herself and not be tied down to a boyfriend from middle school onward because then you saw what could happen - exhibit a through z Elena’s many rants about Matt. She’d listened but not believed her Grams. She still wasn’t sure if she believed her Grams but she did know she wanted someone for her own now, hell, she needed someone with all the stress and violence her life had suddenly turned to. And Jeremy was safe, and cute, and had puppy dog eyes for her and vived for her attention. Was part of her thinking she was settling? Maybe. Did she care? Not really. And speaking of not caring, where the hell was Damon at? He was already late by 15 minutes. Don’t let him get to you. Her inner voice chimed again.

“Jere, how about we just head to the Boarding House? Clearly someone is looking to be set on fire.” Jeremy laughed and nodded. He clearly thought Bonnie was joking, but oh boy couldn’t he be more wrong. Bonnie was 1000% setting Damon on fire if he didn’t come up with a good enough excuse.

_._._._._._._

Rose waited and watched. Jeremy Gilbert was off to the side, looking completely eager and completely in over his head as Bonnie and Damon were arguing about the best course of action following her short introduction into what she knew. And if they thought that was all she could tell them, then obviously they were still underestimating her which frankly was a bit condescending seeing as she was at least 2 years older than the Bonnie currently glaring at Damon. But she’d guessed that would be the reaction she was going to get when she made her choice to be as dramatic as possible. Mom used to say she got it from dad, but seeing the two younger versions of them interacting now she could safely say she got it from both. God knows those eye rolls and ridiculous insults were exaggerated as hell. How did these two people become her slow dancing in the kitchen on a random Thursday evening parents?

“Excuse me?” she tried, weakly, but still she gave it a shot. Jeremy looked over to her then at the still arguing duo then back at her with a look that seemed to say this is just an ordinary Monday for them. “EX-cuse ME!” she tried again, this time much louder but nothing. She sighed. Lost cause.

“If you would’ve let me pick you up like I said initially, you wouldn’t be here wanting to blow my head up now Judgy!”

“If you’d know how to use a phone like a normal person, I wouldn’t have waited needlessly for you for hours Damon!”

“Oh please, it was barely 5 minutes.” he scoffed and Jeremy piped up with a it was fifteen technically that Damon just elected to ignore it seemed. Sometime he did remind Rose of her dad.

“It doesn’t matter! We’re dealing with Klaus! A 5 seconds text shouldn’t be something I need to tell you to do!” Aaannd sometimes she reminded Rose of her mom. Great, now she had anxiety again. And lord knows her mom won’t just raise her voice to yell at her for ending up here like this Bonnie was doing, no no, her mom would have a level voice that somehow would hurt far more. She needed a distraction. She also needed to figure out what was about to happen around this time. Like she remember her dad mentioning that Alaric had gotten possessed at some point and that he and mom had danced at a school 60s event - which she had to ask who actually came up with that stuff, because while Lizzie definitely loved a nice theme party, she still went with like a hava night, or a rock theme or an Austrian ball or something more generic but more fun, not a decades dance. Digressing though, Rose knew these facts, but she didn’t know anything immediate. She needed more information. More inside information.

“Guys, could you take a break and answer a few questions for me first?” she tried one more time. To no avail. So hard times ask for hard measures or something like that and stubborn younger versions of her parents call for her parents usual solve to stubborn daughter fighting with her friends voice so she did her best to channel her mom’s level tone and her dad’s intimidating presence and for someone not actually related to them she though she did a good job seeing as Bonnie and Damon turned in unison to glare at her before being reminded of where they were and what was going on here. She was actually pretty proud of herself for that feat.

“So as I was trying to say, can you give me run-down of what’s been happening here?”

“Oh, I’m sorry, weren’t you the one who knew everything?” Damon commented snidely and Rose almost high-fived Bonnie when both her and Rose said in unison.

“Oh, you know what sorry means?” Bonnie off to the side.

“Oh, so you agree I was right?” Rose with a grin.

Damon seemed to take a moment to grit his teeth and bite back his words before shaking his head, giving a smirk and walking right past Rose to pour himself a glass of bourbon and spread out onto the couch in seeming nonchalance. Rose would almost commend his acting here, if he didn’t also irritate her with it. Who knew dad used to be such a child… well, more so than in her universe...time?

“Damon, she didn’t say she knows everything and don’t be a dick. She’s the only one willing to help us here.” Bonnie on the other hand, Rose was beginning to appreciate more and more. Maybe she was more Mom’s pet in the past than Dad’s pet as she was used to.

“Thank you, Bonnie. And no, I don’t know everything I just know a lot, but I still need to have the full picture and all the players to tell which is the best plan of attack here. As I said, you can’t kill Klaus, but you also don’t want him to become a hybrid right? That means we need to take every variable in consideration.” she argued and saw both Bonnie and Damon share a look before seemingly agreeing with her point of view. And boy was the Klaus of her universe going to laugh himself stupid when/if she made it back and told him his lessons in planning schemes - her dad’s turn of phrase not hers of Klaus’ - had been what had helped her most here. Oh irony, you cruel, opportunistic bitch.

“Bonnie was meant to take on over 100 dead witches’ energy today, it’s why we were waiting for Damon, he knew where they’d died.” came the first important nugget of information from the most - or least? - expected person, Jeremy Gilbert himself. Rose smiled at him in gratitude, glad at least one person was listening.

“Ok, that’s still going to be useful so maybe you should do that anyway and meanwhile I’ll see what Katherine's hiding?” Rose suggested and she didn’t even need to think before knowing that Damon was going to disagree with her - her dad still made that face whenever she and her friends planned something he thought was too dangerous or risky. Bonnie however seemed more receptive.

“No way! Do you even know what that bitch is capable of?” as she said, predictable.

“Damon, I think she might be right. You know Katherine is planning something, no way is she helping from the goodness of her heart and she won’t say anything to any of us.” Ah, how she loved her mom’s pragmatism at times - except when she was 14 and wanted a pony, then she much rather preferred her dad’s personal brand of impulsiveness that not only got her the pony she’s wanted since 5 but also made a stable off a little way further from the house.

“And she is still keeping Katherine knocked out.” Jeremy was quickly becoming Rose’s favourite person, no joke. He was full of wonderful insight and 100% helping her barely formed ideas come to fruition. She smiled proudly and nodded to the still unconscious vampire on the floor. She elected to ignore outright looking at the woman for now, too weirded out by the 1 to 1 replica of Elena to feel comfortable with it. Doppelgangers were too much for her. It was like evil clones, her dad had explained when he tried to make her understand how the whole doppelganger thing even worked - something about the universe or some chick named Tessa or another, she hadn’t been paying too close attention by that point. Their lives were very convoluted in her opinion.

Damon seemed to consider this possibility then, taking another large sip of bourbon and looking directly at Rose as he did so, before slamming the glass onto the end table by the foot of the couch and jumping to his feet.

“Alright, fine, then Bon-Bon, you me and little Gilbert need to head off. Rosie-Posie, you get the Queen of Hell. Good luck to you, you’re going to need it. The bitch hasn’t told the truth a day in her life.”

Rose nodded, smiled and waved them off as they all got out and left to do what they’d planned to do. She couldn’t wait for that honestly, it would at least get Bonnie’s magic up closer to the levels Rose knew from her mom. But the Rosie-Posie was going to kill her the longer she stayed here. It was going to make her slip and call Damon dad and it would all implode into itself, because if she was weak to one thing, it was being her dad’s Rosie-Posie and while she was fully aware this wasn’t actually her dad, her heart didn’t care. All was left now was for her mom to brush her hair out of her eyes and she might just snap. She’d missed her parents far before she got herself stranded in a different universe - despite it having been barely a few hours - since she hadn’t been home in at least 2 months. Sure she’d seen them nearly every night, more mom than dad since dad tried to pretend he still was immune to missing his girls, but it wasn’t the same as hearing her dad from a few feet away, well within hug reach or feel her mom’s warm hand through her hair. Fuck, and now she was crying. This day couldn’t be going worse. Her eyes strayed to Katherine and she groaned. Oh, it could definitely get worse. It could get so much worse.

15 notes · View notes

lady-divine-writes · 5 years

Text

Saturday with the Boys (Rated T)

(Because I needed some general hijinks with Crowley, Adam, and Warlock. XD Inspired by this post.)

“How much do you want for this here picture frame, ma’am?”

“Oh! I’m so sorry, dear. It should be marked.” Wilma pulls her reading glasses down from her white crown and examines the ceramic frame. She actually knows how much she’s asking for it. It says clearly on the front – five pounds. But this man more than likely wants to haggle. So she procrastinates parting with that information, slowly fixing her glasses on the bridge of her nose for show. She’s had 20/20 vision since childhood, and at seventy-seven, that hasn’t changed a whit. But she milks this moment, making herself seem more infirm than she honestly is in the hopes of getting a few pity pounds out of this poor schlub who happened upon her yard sale on this fine Saturday morning.

To be honest, she bought this God awful picture frame on her disaster of a third honeymoon. The whole marriage was ripe for the rubbish heap about four months in and yet she stayed with her darling Henry till the man died of sepsis a year ago – a week before his life insurance policy matured.

This frame is all she has left to remember him by.

Well, this frame, a house, a vacation property in Belize, and a ten million pound inheritance.

If no one buys the stupid thing, she’s going to toss it into the air and shoot it with an air rifle.

“I’m … I’m having a bit of trouble reading this, love,” she says in an appropriately quavering voice, pointing to the tag in the corner. “Does this say five pounds? Or fifteen? It’s been such a long morning out here in the sun. I can’t seem to tell …”

“How about I give you twenty and we call it a day?” the man holding the frame, a soon-to-be-present for his new wife, offers with a smile.

“Oh!” Wilma feigns astonishment while inside her head she pats herself on the back for playing him for a sucker. God, she should have been an actress! She squandered so much of her long life as a common housewife. “That’s so gracious of you! Thank you, my dear!”

“You’re more than wel—“

The end of his sentence gets severed by a vintage car screeching up to the curb and stopping with a jerk. The doors fly open and three people race out – a tall, lanky man with flaming red hair and sunglasses, dressed all in black like an undertaker, accompanied by two young boys around twelve – one with straight black hair, the other a curly dirty blonde. The curly-haired boy hugs a black-and-white terrier to his chest, whispering to it as all three plus dog race over to Wilma, sitting bewildered at her card table beneath a large oak tree.

And they look in a panic.

“Excuse … excuse me,” the curly-haired boy begins, “but we need to see any cursed amulets you may have for sale!”

“Wh—what?” Wilma asks, eyeing the three suspiciously, the dog especially. “What are you going on about?”

“Please!” the dark-haired boy begs. “It’s a matter of life or death!”

The dog barks. The curly-haired boy hugs him.

“It’s all right, Kevin,” he coos. “We’ll get this curse reversed. I promise you.”

“Is this some kind of a joke?” the man buying the frame asks incredulously.

“I can assure you it isn’t,” the tall man says seriously. “We’ve had a bit of a run in with … with … well, uh …” He rubs the back of his neck uncomfortably, looking down and to the side, hard to tell through the dark lenses of his glasses.

“Well, spit it out, mate!” the man says. “A run in with a what?”

“A … a …”

A demon,” the dark-haired boy finishes, a peculiar twist to the corner of his mouth that makes the man with the frame suspect he might be lying.

“Right,” he says, moving in front of Wilma to guard her from these three hooligans trying to pull a horrible prank on this poor old woman.

The dog whines, sounding for all intents and purposes desperate, and the curly-haired boy sighs. “I know it sounds unbelievable, but we’re telling the truth!”

“It won’t be Halloween for ages, young man, so I suggest the three of you climb back in the car you rode in on and get out of here before I phone the authorities!”

“Don’t do that!” the black-haired boy cries. “We’re not trying to cause trouble! Honest!”

“No! No, do!” the tall man says as if the man with the frame just came up with the best solution ever. “Maybe they can help! Do you happen to have the phone number of a local priest perhaps? Maybe a shaman?”

“You should be ashamed of yourself,” frame man scolds, turning on him with venom in his voice. “Encouraging these boys to participate in this reprehensible behavior!”

“Reprehensible!?” the man in the glasses scoffs. “Right! And what do you expect me to tell Kevin’s mum when we bring home a dog instead of her little boy? Hmm? Sorry, ma’am! We could have helped him out, but we didn’t want to disturb the neighbors! They have a right to sell their tacky goods in peace, your son be damned!”

“Are you mad!?”

“Oh, I’m sure she’ll be pleased that the wretched animal appears to be potty trained at least. And uni? No need for that! Think of all the money she’ll save!”

“Look, young man,” Wilma interrupts finally, having tried this entire time to figure out if there was anything on her table that she could pass off as a cursed amulet. Unfortunately, the only thing that might have sufficed walked away for seven pounds over an hour ago. The man in front of them, going on about demons and dogs like a nutter, might be insane, but if she’s right, that watch he’s wearing is worth a pretty penny. And driving an antique Bentley in mint condition? He could at least afford a hundred pounds or more for some useless bauble. “I don’t know what you’re playing at, but could you please move along? You’re scaring away paying …”

The dog in the boy’s arms growls, long and low, a menacing curdle that stops all conversation dead, everyone within a hundred feet suddenly fearing for their lives.

“Uh … Kevin?” the boy says while everyone but the tall man takes a step back, eyes glued to the animal as if expecting him to explode. And he does in a sense, letting loose with the loudest, angriest bark ever to come from an animal, his mouth opening wide, unhinged, revealing seven rows of razor sharp teeth.

And for a split second, his eyes glow red.

“Saints preserve us!” Wilma mutters, crossing herself with a shaking hand and standing so quickly, her chair topples backwards.

“It’s getting worse!” The boy carrying the terrier looks to the man in the dark glasses for help.

“I was afraid of this,” he says. “Get him back to the car, boys! I don’t think an amulet can save us now! Best to get him away from these God fearin’ people before … you know.”

“Before … before what?” Wilma calls after them, too terrified to follow for an answer.

“You don’t want to know,” the boy with the straight black hair says.

“I recommend you all go inside, find your crosses and your Bibles and start to pray,” the man in the glasses says, holding the door to his car open for the boys and the dog. “I feel … judgement day a’comin’.” He looks skyward, examining the clouds, frowning at something that only he sees. The man clutching the frame and Wilma look up, too, trying to see it, but all they see are clouds. Nothing more threatening than that.

But Wilma in particular, as devout a Christian as her Christmas and Easter attendance can attest, isn’t about to admit that.

“Oh dear Lord! Everyone! Get inside! Quickly!” Crowley hears as he climbs into his Bentley and peels away, trying to restrain his laughter until they’re completely out of earshot. Once they turn the corner and tear up the following block, Warlock and Adam crow.

“Did you see the looks on their faces?” Warlock snickers, putting out a fist for Crowley to bump.

“I know!” Adam giggles, wrapping his arms around Dog’s neck. “That was even better than the last one!”

“How’s about we call it a day and go get some ice cream?” Crowley suggests. “I think that guy with the frame might actually call the police.”

“Sounds like a plan,” Adam says. “I think Dog’s had enough. Or should I say Kevin.”

“Oh, all right,” Warlock agrees, even though he was really hoping they’d hit one more yard sale before the day was up. But ice cream is cool, too. Less of a chance of getting him dragged back to mom and dad by the police.

Of course, that’s never been too big an issue since Nanny is always there to bail him out.

“And remember, darlings,” Crowley says, merging on to the M40, “what’s the most important thing to keep in mind about today’s little adventure?”

“Don’t tell Aziraphale,” both boys say in unison.

Crowley peeks into his rearview, beaming at the two boys with pride. “Brilliant.”

#good omens #crowley #adam young #warlock #ineffable idiots #aziraphale #frankie writes

188 notes · View notes

mirandagoing4baroque · 4 years

Text

Agrippina at the Met

A long time ago, in a galaxy far, far, away, back in the before times, I traveled to New York to see Agrippina. I saw the last production in the show’s run, and one of the last operas performed at the Met this year. I returned from that trip on March 9 and entered social distancing March 13, when the guidance came out that people who had been to New York should self-quarantine. I say the above partially as an excuse for why this review is so late, and partially for some context. Agrippina was supposed to be the highlight of my season this year. Instead it was the end.

My father and I bought our tickets for Agrippina as soon as they went on sale, over a year before the night we intended to attend the show. The plans were made, the train tickets to New York booked, the arrangements to stay with friends made. Dinner reservations made. A week before the appointed hour, we got a text from our friend “are you still planning to come? People here are freaking out about the coronavirus.” We talked it over, and determined that if the opera was on, we would go. The opera was on, so we went.

After a lovely dinner at an Italian restaurant (also my last meal in a restaurant) on the way to Lincoln Center, we made our way to the opera house. Both my father and I had been to the Met before (I had a particularly memorable trip to see La Donna Del Lago), but we had never been together. We took a tour around the various levels, admiring the history and art, before taking our seats. The curtin was bedecked with a giant painting of a wolf with engorged teats, upon which two human infants were suckling. It was clearly a depiction of the twins and the founding of Rome.

For you see Agrippina is a story of Agrippina the Younger and her attempts to get her son Nero (in this opera called Nerone), on the throne of Rome. I usually try to race through these, but when there's a lot of distance to cover, there's only so fast you can go. The story begins, she has just received word that her husband the emperor Claudius (here Claudio) has been drowned at sea. She plots to seize the opening to have her son named emperor by popular acclaim. The senate consents and Agrippina and Nero begin to ascend the steps to the throne, but this is only like half an hour into this opera, so there’s no way this is going to work. And sure enough, before they reach their (well Agrippina’s, Nerone is a little more conflicted) goal, a messenger arrives saying that Claudio has survived, saved by the general Otho. The two men arrive in the city and everyone except Agrippina rejoices.

It is announced that Claudio has named Otho his heir. Agrippina is furious. But then Otho lets it slip to Agrippina that he loves Poppea and cares more for her than the throne. Agrippina uses this info to manipulate Poppea into rejecting Otho, by telling Poppea that Otho gave her up in exchange for the throne. You see Claudio also loves Poppea, though unlike Otho, his love is not reciprocated. Agrippina further tells Poppea that she can get revenge by telling Claudio that she can’t see him anymore because Otho said so. Claudio storms off in a huff. I swear I am trying to do this quickly; I’ve cut several subplots already. Otho’s coronation day arrives. Claudio, angry about the Poppea thing, disavows Otho. One by one, all the other characters turn their backs on him. He despairs.

Poppea is moved by the despair and wonders if her beloved might be innocent. She sets up a trap, and discovers Otho’s innocence. Agrippina convinces Claudio that Otho is still plotting against him, and implores Claudio to abdicate in favor of Nerone for the Emperor’s own safety. Nerone declares his love for Poppea because why the hell not. In a scene in which three people (Nerone, Claudio, Otho) are hidden in the closets of her bedroom, Poppea rejects Nerone, and convinces Claudio that Otho is not plotting against him. Nerone, in a fit of rage forswears romantic love in favor of political ambition. Claudio calls everyone together and announces that the throne will go to Otho and Poppea will wed Nerone. Everyone freaks out, as this is the opposite of what everyone wants. Claudio changes his mind. The end. (Deep breath).

Agrippina was the first major operatic work that Handel wrote, and it definitely shows. I mean, that plot, am I right? But there is a lot to like, musically, here. The orchestra was excellent, though frequent readers of this blog will not be surprised that I lament the lack of period instruments. But Harry Bicket can do no wrong stylistically and the orchestra acquitted themselves admirably. I found the second act much stronger than the first. I think this is just that the first act is mostly set up (it takes up more than two thirds of the summary above) and the emotional pay off mostly comes in the back half, which is where Handel can truly shine.

I was a little nervous, because the reviews of this production had been mixed. It appeared that the staging was a “strong flavor” and the reactions had been intense, with some loving the somewhat madcap, updated staging, and others finding it distracting. I was somewhere in the middle. Overall, I think the staging was a value add. The director seemed to be on a mission to see how far he could stretch the original libretto to accommodate new situations. There were times when it worked (turning the racing clouds in Nerone’s final aria to cocaine), and times when it did not (setting Poppea and Otho’s reconciliation in a bar). The secondary mission of the director seemed to be to make things as difficult as possible for the singers, who by and large rose to the challenge with aplomb. Kate Lindsay was given a particularly hard row to hoe, and my lord she triumphed.

The cast not only surmounted the acting challenges laid before them, they were all quite capable vocally. As I have mentioned before, when it comes to roles originally written for castrati I am generally in the camp of sisters (mezzos) before misters (countertenors). Sorry guys, it’s not personal, some of you are quite lovely. And with respect to the thumb headed henchmen, I would have rather had mezzos in those roles. But Otho was played quite capably by Iestyn Davies. I had the great fortune of hearing him sing Eustazio at the Lyric Opera almost a decade ago, and he was an exceptionally winning Otho. My heart broke for him when he was rejected by all his friends one by one and was left alone. It was one of the most moving moments of the opera for me. Matthew Rose was a capable Claudio, neither particularly distinguishing himself, nor giving me any cause for complaint.

The true standouts of this production were the women. As you may remember from my trip to the Lyric opera over a year ago, Brenda Rae is not a new name to me. She was a highlight of Ariodante, so I was very much looking forward to her performance as Poppea. Her voice was lovely, but at times seemed too small for the house. I quite enjoyed her interpretation of Poppea though: a savvy, good hearted woman who is doing her best. Hashtag relatable. (Especially in the scene where she eats a whole box of chocolates in an oversized sweater).

I’ll get to Joyce DiDonato in a minute, but you all already know that I’ll think she was awesome. I want to talk about Kate Lindsay. Who took every curveball the director threw at her and said “Yeah I can do that; I can make that awesome.” Her tatted up, bad boy Nerone channeled Beiber, and did coke, and moonwalked up stairs while singing arias. And after all that, when most of us mortals would be curled in a small ball, she sang an aria WHILE HOLDING A PLANK. Sang the aria beautifully, loudly, as if she were standing in her shower. I don’t know what supernatural creature got bored and decided being an opera singer on earth would be fun, but I’m super glad one did. I had heard of Kate Lindsay, but I had not heard her, and, friends, I was missing out. Her voice had pop. It had feeling, it had control, it had everything. She is doing Sesto next season (god willing and the creek don’t rise), and I am ready to cry my eyes out when she sings Cara Speme.

Joyce DiDonato. I don’t have a lot to say I haven’t already said before. To quote Hamilton “Look around, Look around, How lucky we are to be alive right now.” Right now being the time when we have the privilege of hearing Joyce DiDonato sing Handel. I am so, so, grateful to be able to type the following: this was not the best Handel I’ve heard her sing. The role is just not as good as some of the roles in his other operas. But Joyce DiDonato singing Handel is like pizza. It’s just gonna be good. And this was. As always, she had the highlight of the show for me. It wasn’t one of the big showy arias though. It was the small quiet moment Agrippina has with her husband at the very end of the show. She sings:

“Se vuoi pace, oh volto amato, l'odio reo fuga da te!...

“If you want peace, my love, Banish hate from your mind!...

[My best attempt at a translation aided by three years of Latin and Google Translate]

Yes, as per usual, Agrippina is manipulating him. But Joyce DiDonato is such a master, and she paints such a lovely and peaceful image that it’s hard not to want to live there. May everyone who wants such a place be able to find it in these trying times.

#agrippina #joyce didonato #kate lindsey #met opera #handel

13 notes · View notes

thepotionbat · 4 years

Text

All These Things That I’ve Done

Hello everyone! Long time, no update. Let’s call it a good old-fashioned mixture of writer’s block, work, and school. I hope you enjoy this chapter! I’m not gonna lie, I certainly struggled through it. The beginning italicized bit is from Pink Floyd’s Wish You Were Here. Chapter word count: 3,148

Story summary: The world post-Voldemort is a complicated one to navigate: the Ministry is taken over by a Minister who does not know of Snape’s service to the Order, Dementor’s are still at Azkaban, Snape’s name remains uncleared, and, perhaps surprisingly of all to Snape, Harry seems to have respect for him now. Despite the uncertainty of his future, Snape is amazed to find that he actually has one in the first place – his years of living as a spy and a puppet to Dumbledore as well as undergoing faux obedience to Voldemort have left him in a state of mind that abandoned all hopes of living a life for himself –now, however, he realizes there is a life post-war for him after all, no matter how unsteady it may be.

Chapter summary: Severus comes to grips with being alive and with the uncertainty of his fate. Harry and Severus have more in common than they thought.

Chapter Two

Did you exchange A walk on part in the war For a lead role in a cage?

Over the next several days, Severus was left with ample time to think.

There were many places his thoughts could wander to now that all he was doing was lying in a hospital bed; after all, there were no more students under his watch, no more meetings with the Dark Lord to attend to, no more need to look behind his shoulder after every move — well, that one, perhaps, would need more time.

Severus’s time as Headmaster had been a harrowing one, one that, at many times, felt like some sort of a sick ode to his past: Minerva’s trust in him had completely evaporated, as it also had from the rest of the staff he had come to acquaint with; he rarely descended from the Headmaster’s office, and he was once again steeped with the presence of Dark Magic and Dark Wizards.

He had promised Dumbledore that he would keep the students safe, and that had been a promise he had meant, but safety was a rare luxury in the times they were in. The Carrows took pride in terrorizing the students, as if they were doing the Dark Lord the greatest favor of all; they were like cats toying with a bug under their claws, and Severus could hardly burst in and tell them to stop without blowing his cover.

Children everywhere were sporting black eyes and intense fear as they were marched around the campus; wherever he could, Severus would assist Madam Pomfrey with the students who had been sent to her bearing injuries dealt by Dark Magic, but that hardly did enough to relieve the contriteness he felt inside.

Indeed, he had spent many sleepless nights in Dumbledore’s office, kept awake by the guilt threatening to eat him alive.

“You’re doing all that you can,” Albus’s portrait had assured him, more than once, but it never made him feel any better, not really. The Headmaster’s office without Dumbledore was just a shell of what it once had been, as was Hogwarts before the Death Eaters had been welcomed inside; the school was bones in a graveyard of good days gone by, and Severus was in the center of it.

He had spent many days in that office, held many meetings; the Carrows had come to him with the names of students that refused to do as they were told and had boasted about their subsequent methods of discipline; Minerva had continually spoken her concerns to him, all veiled under a thin layer of stiff fury, disgust in her eyes every single time she could bring herself to look at him. Most of his 38th birthday had been spent in there, too, before he was called out to a meeting with Lord Voldemort.

Despite the many horrors he had faced recently — his disturbing brush with death being one of them — Severus found himself dwelling also on another year, his thoughts pulling towards a time further back in his past, a time of similar turmoil:

1981.

It had been a period of darkness, anxiety, and stress, and not just for him — the entirety of the population had been panicking, fearful to even speak of Lord Voldemort, let alone say his name. The distress that he had felt in the air over the past year was all too alike to the kind felt during 1981 and the years building up to it.

He could clearly remember the moment he had found out that the Dark Lord was targeting the Potters and how his life had subsequently been sent into a whirlwind of changes — approaching Dumbledore, swearing his allegiance to the man, desperately doing all that he could to save Lily and her family from the fate he felt he had very much set into motion —

And yet it had all been for nothing, so it seemed.

All in one night, Lily and James were murdered, the Dark Lord had vanished, Sirius was sent to Azkaban, and Peter was dead… A list of names that fit right in with the litany of dead and damaged people making up his generation.

Severus himself had been left with a fading Dark Mark on his arm and no purpose in life, just waiting to answer for the sins he had committed.

The weeks following Lily’s death, he had all but become a ghost right along with her. He had drifted through the halls of Hogwarts, taught his classes, and maintained his Head of House position, but through it all had only thinly concealed his rage at the world and his intense grief — grief both for Lily, and for the sorry excuse of a life he had made for himself.

On top of it all, he’d been the youngest of the Professors by far and because of it, he felt as though he had had double the amount to prove of himself. He could tell the majority of the staff thought he was too young, too neurotic, too volatile, to teach students; he struggled socially, and mostly kept to himself. Minerva’s distrustful eye had trailed on him nearly everywhere he went, the woman having been completely unconvinced of why Albus had hired him.

Dumbledore had kept the Aurors at bay for as long as he could, but eventually Alastor Moody and a couple of his colleagues had come to collect Severus, for he had been named by one of the other Death Eaters; and so it was, at 22, he had landed in Azkaban. It was his luck that he didn’t stay long before Dumbledore yanked him back out, the man having proved his case of being a spy for the Order to the Ministry.

As he lie in the hospital bed, hidden from the outside world by curtains, the flow of time interrupted only by the mediwitches who came to deliver his healing potions, Severus couldn’t help but feel that he had escaped one cage only to be placed into another — but hadn’t that been his whole life? He had found escape from his home life at Hogwarts, and then, when Hogwarts had become another nightmare, he had his time with Lily to cherish; when that too had been crushed at his own hand, he found himself running with Death Eaters and blood purists, soon to change the course of his life forever.

In truth, Severus could barely remember what it was like, before he was a spy… before he was a Death Eater. He wasn’t sure if there ever really was a before. If there was, he knew he couldn’t exactly pinpoint when before ended and became now.

Sometimes he wondered if he was always going to be branded with Lord Voldemort’s Mark, or, if things had happened differently, he would have made different decisions.

Even amidst all of these thoughts, his mind continued to replay the moment the Aurors had dragged him away from the school grounds of Hogwarts all of those years ago, and he couldn’t help but think that he was soon to face a similar fate once again — this time, however, Dumbledore wasn’t here to save him.

Often, he fell asleep with these things still swirling in the forefront of his mind, and all he was able to do when he woke up was continue to mull them over.

————

A number of days had passed when Severus woke up to another presence in the room, disrupting the routine he had become so familiar with.

Harry was sitting in the same chair he had before, but now his eyes were idly observing the tiles on the ceiling. Truthfully, he looked as though he may drop off to sleep at any moment, but despite his apparent weariness, he still must have sensed Severus’s movement, as slight as it was, for then his eyes trailed down from the ceiling and met his.

Severus blinked at the boy, studying him for a moment, before looking away dismissively.

“I’ve been thinking,” Harry began, the unexpected initiation of conversation winning Severus’s eyes on him again.

“How were you able to keep the password as Dumbledore with all of those Death Eaters coming in and out?”

It took a moment for him to understand that he must be referring to the password needed to get into the Headmaster’s office, to the Pensieve.

“I enacted… special instruction to the Gargoyle,” he explained. “It would have permitted you to enter no matter what you may have said.”

“Oh,” Harry said. “I didn’t know it could be… instructed, or whatever.”

After a second, Severus raised an eyebrow, ever so slightly. “‘Dumbledore?’”

“First person I could think of,” he mumbled.

Severus supposed he couldn’t blame him for that.

“Oh, and another thing,” Harry added, a second later. “You knew my Aunt Petunia?”

Those were hardly the next words Severus expected him to say, and for a second, he was stunned into silence. The last thing he wanted or expected to do was dredge up memories from his childhood, particularly not of that dreadful girl.

“…You could say that.”

“Huh.” Harry crossed his arms. Then, after a moment, “She kept me in a cupboard.”

Severus blinked at him. “…What?”

“A cupboard,” he repeated, as if that would be any more clearer the second time. “The only other unoccupied bedroom in the house was used for Dudley’s — er, her son’s — toys. I got the cupboard.”

He didn’t know what to say.

“You thought I lived an easy life, didn’t you?” Harry said shrewdly. “Born with a silver spoon in my mouth, that sort of thing.”

There was a storm brewing in Harry’s tired eyes, no doubt born from the trauma and grief of all of the things that had happened to him that he had never been allowed to fully process, and it shouldn’t have come as a surprise that Severus would become the listening board for the brunt of it. It wasn’t necessarily anger, no; Severus more or less got the sense that the storm inside Harry was compiled of mixed emotions and what could have been carefree childhood years gone to waste.

“Sometimes they would lock me in there,” he continued. “If I did something wrong, I mean. They might remember to feed me, might not.”

Severus watched him steadily, feeling a pang in his chest at the words. If he was reminded of his own childhood of fending for himself, he would never say, just like he would never admit that Harry was completely catching him off guard with what he was saying.

“You don’t know me, not like you always acted like you did,” Harry said. He stared at Severus with Lily’s eyes, full of conviction. “…But I suppose I don’t really know you, either. We were both wrong about each other.”

I’m sorry.

The words crawled up Severus’s formerly ravaged throat, willing themselves to be spoken aloud; they were appropriate words, something anyone else would have said, but as much as he knew he should speak them, the apology couldn’t make it out of his mouth; he had never been a person that was good at apologies, and his near-death experienced had still not changed that about him. The opportunity passed, and Severus finally tore his gaze from the boy, letting the moment go to simmer in silence.

When it was clear that Severus wasn’t going to say anything, Harry rose from his chair, a sound that scraped against the former quiet.

“The reason I came is to tell you that I went back to the Pensieve and got your memories,” he said. “I turned them in to the Ministry. They’re going to review them.”

With that, Severus watched him push past the curtains and leave.

————

Severus hadn’t expected Harry to come back.

He had barely expected to see him again after the first time he had woken up, but even less so after their last conversation — this was why he was surprised when Harry did in fact return again, and more times after that.

It seemed that after getting out a most of what he had wanted to, Harry was more liable to speak to Severus with a lack of pent up emotion, seeming to consider him with trust and perhaps even respect, which was what was most shocking of all.

Either way, Harry was quickly becoming his source of information for what was going on in the outside world.

“They’re taking their time on deciding that your memories haven’t been tampered with,” Harry had told him the third time he had come back, his tone indicating that he rather thought they were dawdling. He seemed a bit more well-rested, less emotional.

“It is difficult to determine whether or not memories have been altered,” Severus said dismissively. “Surely you know this.”

“No—well, yes, I suppose—but yours haven’t,” Harry said. “I’ve seen tampered memories before, they don’t look like that.”

Severus refrained from rolling his eyes at the boy’s naive certainty, for once managing to rein in his annoyance. “What it really depends upon is the current… political climate,” he remarked instead. “Who is the new Minister?”

“Oh. His name’s Willem Ironwood,” Harry said. “I’m not sure about him, yet. The public likes him, though. He seems like the strong leader sort. I guess that’s what everyone’s looking for, these days.”

The name rang vaguely familiar to Severus, which was a bit concerning, considering the typical manner of the crowd he had been acquainting with, but nothing of certainty could come to mind, so he let it go, for the moment.

Harry had told him, in greater detail this time, of how he survived his confrontation with Voldemort, how he had gone to the forest and taken the Killing Curse, and then how Narcissa Malfoy lied about his death.

Severus had disliked Harry for a long time. It made things easier, as was having the boy hate him in return. It was easy to picture the boy who was a nearly exact copy of his father’s image as having the same personality, one born from an arrogant, pampered life; surely, the Boy Who Lived would have grown up in one similar.

Instead, he found that it was him and the boy who had far more in common than he had ever considered. Their near-deaths had even been delivered by the same person, their fates much the same, when considered in accordance to Dumbledore’s plans.

“Why didn’t Dumbledore leave you anything to help prove you were working as a spy the whole time?” Harry asked.

The Headmaster had never expected Severus to live, but Severus couldn’t exactly hold it against him — he, too, had never considered a life after Voldemort’s death. Truly, Voldemort’s death was a concept he could never really imagine at all, as impossible as it seemed.

Dumbledore had instructed Severus to kill him, and in doing so, Severus was to become the true owner of the Elder Wand, thus keeping Voldemort’s damage potential as minimal as possible — but Tom Riddle was no fool. Both Severus and Dumbledore knew that he would work it out eventually, and then kill Severus, seeking the wand’s full potential — but by then, Harry would have had an ample lead on getting rid of horcuxes, which Voldemort didn’t even know he would be hunting.

“It was not in Albus’s plans for me to survive.”

Other days, Harry wasn’t so well off. Severus found himself listening to the rants brought to him by the boy, all about those he had cared about that died in the war, about Dumbledore and everything the man had kept from him, about what it had felt like, walking through the forest to face his death.

It was obvious the boy felt guilty, and, well, guilt was an emotion Severus knew well — the difference was that Severus deserved to carry his guilt. His guilt was his contrition, his penitence, and he never expected it to ease, never thought he would ever be due for it to. He had committed many mistakes throughout his life, mistakes he could never run from; their damage was done.

Harry, on the other hand, was just a child, and his guilt was misplaced — it was not Harry’s fault that all of those people had died, as he seemed to think. They had all died facing Voldemort and his army, fighting for their freedom, for justice in the Wizarding World — but Severus hardly found himself qualified to know how to tell the boy what he needed to hear in a way that would be sensitive, so mostly, he just let him talk, let him say whatever he felt he couldn’t to his gang of friends or to his surrogate Weasley mother. Maybe it was the fact that Severus listened and didn’t try to argue that Harry felt he could speak his mind at all.

Sometimes Harry stayed briefly, sometimes he stayed for an hour or more. Severus had been able to focus some of his thoughts on the boy and maintaining a conversation with him rather than on the memories that had begun to be relentlessly turned over in his mind, but even so, things had become to easy, too peaceful.

Calamity was surely lurking, just beneath the surface. It was just something Severus had come to expect.

————

As usual, Severus was right.

It was one morning Harry came in rather early, a look of urgency on his face.

“Professor,” he rushed. “I came as quickly as I could — they didn’t validate the memories. They want you to go to trial. The Aurors are on their way to get you now—”

It was at that moment that a hush fell over the ward outside the curtains, and somehow, that was louder than any of the routine bustle had ever been.

“Potter,” Severus began, making to tell him to leave, but it was too late. Two Aurors pushed past the curtain, led by a Healer.

A stiff second of silence passed.

“Harry Potter,” one of them said, looking Harry up and down. “Fancy seein’ you here. I thought we made it clear you weren’t to conspire with the accused.”

“I wasn’t—”

The other went over to Severus, undoing the magical ties with a couple quick flicks of his wand, beginning the next quick succession of events distracting Severus from whatever argument Harry had been attempting to make. The Auror gripped him with a tight hand, urging him from the bed and pulling him to his unsteady feet; upon standing, a weight seem to crash down on Severus’s shoulders, as if he weighed much heavier than he had before the war, but he straightened himself, unwilling to appear weak.

“Severus Snape,” the first Auror said, obviously having dismissed Harry, and gripped him by his other arm. “It’s about time.”

With that, they drug him out of the curtains and into the bright world that Severus had almost forgotten what it was like to be a part of.

Here is a great post that served as inspiration for the bit about Snape and Dumbledore’s plan regarding the Elder Wand.

I’m going to be honest; I didn’t really carefully proofread this chapter. I was too excited to post it and too tired of staring in concentration at my screen. If there’s any slip-ups on my part, forgive me. If you want to be added to future tag lists, let me know! Tag list: @madamecoyote @eruditeslytherin @moonie-writes

#my eyes are tired rip #ATTTID #mywriting #snape lives au #snape lives #snape lives fic

15 notes · View notes

kethsi · 4 years

Text

Archery Practice

Arianwyn Cadarn is an excellent leader. He’s not a very good adoptive father, though. -- Warnings include unhealthy thought process (what else is new?), Mentions of mild child neglect, mention of animal death (Wolves, Bears, Pawyas), past character death and talk of wars. -- Islwyn Cadarn, last known living relative of fabled king Baxtorian Cadarn and great queen Glarial, is a realist. Really, he is. He looks at every situation through a critical lens, analyzes it, compares the pros and the cons in his mind, and decides what course of action he’d take form here. Really, there’s no reason not to do this. He may only be twelve decades old, but that was old enough to be considered an adult, by elven standards. Besides, this is a method that proved itself effective so far. After all, this exact same approach is part of how his grandfather conquered Kandarin. Naturally, what was good enough for one of the most powerful elves in history was more than good enough for Islwyn. In his current situation, Islwyn wasn’t quite ready to learn more complex magics from the book his mother left him – he simply didn’t have the energy reserves for the more elaborate spells he hasn’t mastered yet, and most elves in Lletya weren’t much help either. Sure, he practiced daily, and he was pretty good at many spells, too, but energy reserves grow and develop with time, as does one’s magical ability. So in the meantime – meantime being the last half decade or so – Islwyn Cadarn went on to practice archery. He knew the basics, of course, he was a member of clan Cadarn, thank you very much – but that alone didn’t make him good at it. So he practiced, using training bows made of pine wood or Kandarinian oak – because using a crystal bow, or a bow made of the local magic trees would be too easy. He’d be tempted to let his soul sing with the crystal, which would guide his arrows to the targets, or sync his magical abilities with those of the magic bow, and all progress will be lost. It wouldn’t truly be his own achievement. Not in archery, at least. It would simply be another way to train magic, but it isn’t what he needs right now. Right now he needs practice.

Easier said than done, though. All around him, other elves were chattering excitedly at one another. He didn’t know the reason, and he didn’t care enough at the moment to find out. He was training by the flax field, so of course others would be passing by to pick some for their own purposes, from time to time. Some of the voices were too high pitched to him though, and too laced with negativity. Whines and complaints of children at parents. The seeds of tantrums soon to bloom. He released his grip on the bowstring, slightly irritated. The arrow flew forward with a quiet whistle before hitting the spot he was aiming for, the center of a flax flower he attached to the archery target. It wasn’t that he was keen on destroying flowers, but he needed to justify aiming elsewhere when the true center held too many arrows to keep shooting at. Besides, the flax flowers were calming enough to look at, and he liked having them in his field of vision even when he wasn’t actively aiming at them. “I don’t care!” some child yelled. “We had bear stew for three days! I want something else!” The next arrow hit one of the petals, a bit too high. “I’m sorry, dear,” the woman next to the child – presumably his mother – tried, gently. “There isn’t much else right now.” “Isn’t there any pawya?” Tak. Another arrow missed its mark by about two inches. Islwyn Cadarn wasn’t very good at concentrating with loud noises around. Shame on him. He should do better. “The hunters won’t return until tomorrow morning”, the mother replied. “We can go get things first thing in the morning, if you want”. “They’re taking too long,” the child whined. “They’re bad hunters. Why couldn’t the good ones go hunting instead?”. This arrow lodged itself in the ground. Islwyn sure felt mediocre now, looking at all the missed spots. He frowned, lowering his bow. Six of his last twenty shots didn’t seem to hit their marks. He would blame it on his own agitation, his own unbalanced reaction to the noise around him, but that would not be fair. “War isn’t quiet”, Arianwyn always said. “The noise” isn’t an excuse he could use to justify missing targets, adversaries that could be lethal to his clan if they ever have to defend Lletya from possible Iorwerth invasion in case it is discovered. Still, he couldn’t prevent his selfish thoughts from gnawing at his mind. He couldn’t stop the passing thoughts that these kids are lucky to be raised like that. With parents they could whine to about anything. He didn’t have anyone to complain to, growing up. He lost his mother long ago. Didn’t even know his father. Islwyn Cadarn had to be a responsible child, because he was raised by Lord Cadarn himself, and because he was the grandson of two figures he never met and whose shoes he was expected to fill regardless, as if it was easy. As if it was possible at all, to become as powerful as two mages who shaped the world around them everywhere they walked. He was expected to shut up and do better, always. The current Lord Cadarn hated it when he complained. Islwyn sighed, walking forward. Lletya was getting busy, noisy, as it always did during the early hours of the afternoon. No sense to continue practicing now. Not here, at least. He won’t make much progress. He decided to pluck the arrows out of the wooden target. He wouldn’t want high and mighty Arianwyn to receive complaints about Islwyn’s behavior, now. It would reflect poorly on the both of them, would it not? Surely, Lord Cadarn shouldn’t be lenient on such displays of laziness. Islwyn himself would be seen as a spoiled princeling who expects everyone to clean up after him because his family ties got to his head. Absurd. He was always judged based on “What would Baxtorian say? What would Eirlys think?” What would it matter? They were dead. They weren’t coming back. Why did everyone insist on lecturing him about the dangers of disappointing a family that wasn’t there to disappoint, anyway? There was only Arianwyn. Being close friends with Islwyn’s mother, he agreed to raise her little orphan son. He always reminded Islwyn of that. Always kept some forced formality between them. Ever since Islwyn could remember, he was expected to treat Arianwyn as a lord, and Arianwyn treated Islwyn like something of the sort, too. Not that he ever let Islwyn make any decision or have an actual say in anything, but he made sure to act as if Islwyn was an adult, effectively erasing any trace of free time or “undesirable” hobbies Islwyn had. Except the magic. Arianwyn never had it in him to prevent Islwyn from studying and practicing that. Regardless, Islwyn never really had a proper childhood. Never had a chance to disagree with Arianwyn on anything. Never got comforted when he cried. He was simply told to act in a way befitting of his heritage. Conveniently, he was also told that his grandfather’s grief over the loss of his grandmother was private. That mighty king Baxtorian would put the morale of his troops above his own need to mourn. Even worse, he was told that his mother would do the same on her deathbed. More concerned about the healers who were supposed to help getting their eight hours of sleep than she was with her own pain. Naturally, selfishness in any form was never allowed. So he kept his selfishness in his thoughts, and kept those thoughts to himself. Good, Merciful Seren, he thought. Thank you for making us incapable of peering into one another’s thoughts. I would’ve gotten an earful for that, too. Having collected all the arrows, Islwyn was soon on his way home. It was the best part of being an adult, really. Lletya wasn’t all that big, but it still had plenty of room for him to construct his own little house, with the help of some ex-members of clan Ithell, engineers and siege weapon operators who married Cadarn elves after the war. Honestly, living on his own without Arianwyn’s judging (or sometimes pitying) glances and annoying, disappointed commentary. Still, he had to pass by Arianwyn’s house more often than not, as it had provided a rather convenient shortcut to Eudav’s general store, where Islwyn would sometimes sell the bones of dire wolves he had slain. Islwyn had no wolf bones in his bag today, but he found himself passing by Arianwyn’s place out of habit. He caught himself and tried to increase his pace. The unmistakable whistles of arrows stopped him in his tracks. He looked around, easily spotting Arianwyn, outside his own house, shooting a target as well. Islwyn wanted to look away, but the clan leader was impressive to say the least. With three shots a second, Islwyn was shocked to see some of the wooden targets held hundreds of arrows, so close together that some were somehow lodged not in the targets themselves but between two other arrows, each target forming simple shapes or designs. He recognized some from his studies. These were the clan sigils. Owl, for Amlodd, hare for Hefin, an acorn and a leaf for Crwys… He wasn’t sure he recognized the symbol Arianwyn was making at the moment though. It looked like some crystal with a messy background. “Ithell,” Arianwyn said out loud, making Islwyn jump. He did not take his eyes off the target though, nor did he stop shooting arrows. “At least it’s supposed to be. But I can’t make a proper lyre to save my life.” Islwyn nodded, respectfully. “It’s quite remarkable, actually” he heard himself say. “Just a little hard to recognize with two smaller crystals still missing…” Arianwyn nodded and lowered his bow and looked at him. Only, it was more like a stare. The leader was studying him intently, expression unreadable. The younger elf quickly realized what he’s done. “Oh, I- I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to distract you, Lord Cadarn,” he apologized. “I’ll be on my way-“ “Islwyn” Islwyn flinched. “…Yes?” Arianwyn’s expression softened suddenly. He seemed uncertain, just for a moment, before taking a step in Islwyn’s direction and offering him his own bow. “Would you like to add them?” “I- what?” “The other crystals.” Arianwyn answered, gently. “Oh. Sorry, I’d really rather not.” Arianwyn was giving him that look again. The one he didn’t understand. The leader of the Cadarns was regarding him with some weird, uncharacteristic guarded gentleness, as if Islwyn would vanish into thin air if the other elf dared to make any sudden movements. There was something apologetic in his eyes and in the way he held his bow for Islwyn to take. Finally, seeing he would get no other reply, Arianwyn nodded. “It’s a shame,” he said. “You have your own bows, I was told you’ve been practicing for a few years now, and you never brought it up.” “I picked it up again” Islwyn shrugged. “Five years ago. I think.” Of course, he was taught archery as a child, too. All Cadarn children were expected to know the basics, after all. Arianwyn just never seemed very eager to teach him. So when he decided to start training on his own, he didn’t feel the need to involve Arianwyn in his decision making. “That’s wonderful” Arianwyn smiled. “do you like it better now?” Islwyn hesitated. He couldn’t say for sure. He enjoyed some aspects, sure. He liked the precision, the sound arrows made when flying towards a target, the way his heartbeat stabilized when he was concentrating… …The fact that training arrows weren’t volatile and wouldn’t explode if he did something wrong, the way magic might… “I think so” he admitted. It was true enough. Even if in all honesty, he was just trying to improve because he genuinely wanted to be better at something than the elf who raised him. Well, after today’s display… Islwyn should certainly cross anything involving arrows off the list. Arianwyn paused again. “Would you join me in training, at least?” “With all due respect, I don’t think you need training, Lord Cadarn.” Arianwyn shook his head. “I do,” he sighed, glancing between his targets and the younger elf. “I shouldn’t waste your time with beginner stuff, though.” “You’ve passed beginner levels long ago, Islwyn. I’ve heard you’ve been developing your own style.” Islwyn shrugged. He was trying, that was for certain. He was pretty handy with a crystal bow, though, having practiced with it for two years. Crystal bows are interesting weapons, offering high accuracy to those who sacrificed raw strength and vice versa, creating their own arrows of pure energy designed to accommodate the user’s style and choices. They were exhausting to use for long periods of time, but the results certainly spoke for themselves. “Not very fair to say that, though,” Islwyn countered. “I think my bow decided to develop its own style. I merely happened to be present to witness it the longest, so I picked up a thing or two.” “You’ve achieved a perfect harmony, then” Arianwyn pointed out. “I could really use a helping hand with that. I think mine doesn’t like me very much.” Whatever Islwyn expected to hear in an answer from Arianwyn… That definitely wasn’t it. He stopped to think for a moment. Arianwyn was great at both crystal singing and archery. There is no reason for a crystal bow to not function perfectly in the hands of the leader. Then again, Arianwyn did mention, once or twice, that this wasn’t his own bow. Maybe… “Well, in that case, I could use some help with improving my speed. I don’t think I can fire ten-thousand arrows an hour.” Arianwyn’s face broke into a wide smile. “Neither can I.” Huh. Who would’ve thought… “All right,” Islwyn allowed a small smile form on his own face. “I’ll settle for nine thousand, then.”

#runescape #Islwyn #Arianwyn #Islwyn Cadarn #Arianwyn Cadarn #I'm back on my bullshit #Wrote that for myself but feel free to read if you wanna #This thing is called 'Archery practice' but is should be called 'practice fic' because I'm only just remembering how to English properly #First of probably 5 parts all of which are motivated by my salt at Jagex's bad handling of their own canon #long post

5 notes · View notes

ephemeral-writings · 5 years

Text

requested by anon; jongdae + 79. “D-did I ever tell you how beautiful your eyes are?”

---

Time passes by in cups of coffee these days. You count your daily intake of caffeine, your laps every morning, count the motorcycles that passes by as you make your rounds around your neighborhood. You’ve moved on from counting the nights you cry yourself to sleep to counting the hours you sleep instead, so that’s good.

You’re counting the hours left in your shift as you arrive yet again in the lobby after taking care of a snobby woman who had complaints about a speck of stain she found on her towel. Though you wish for nothing but to be in the comfort of your own home, you can’t trust your co-manager to not ring you later when “complications” arises in your absence which only makes your hours more grueling.

The guests are being particularly needy today with what the up and coming holidays bringing stress and all. You had no particular qualms towards festivities, holidays or in general, but in every event you had participated in, it had left you soul-sucked and never the desire to re-do the whole process. The veil of lies and deceit in order to ride the waves of illusory euphoria left your body feeling like an empty husk, a feeling you’d rather avoid at all costs.

Speaking of unwelcomed feelings, the hours you’ve kept count of since three months ago fades and blends into one single name, it’s syllables rolling off the tip of your tongue as you’re faced with the man who you last saw was sleeping in your bed.

He hasn’t noticed you, you don’t think, but he’s bound to because it’s your job to welcome the guests, especially the VIPs and Kim Jongdae, being the heir of Kim’s Medical Institute, Jongdae was a high profile guest.

He turns his head momentarily to flick his fringes from his eyes, and that’s when you meet eyes. Shit, he’s caught you staring, unfortunately, and his expression becomes a weird combination of soft and hard. Yours, however, is wiped clean of any emotion as you make you way over to him with your assistant in tow.

“Welcome back, Mr. Kim,” you greet him, posture in perfect angle with your hands on your stomach as you bowed to the man. It wasn’t his first visit; there had been plenty of times prior which is how you met to begin with. When you straighten your back again, you make sure to look at Jongdae in the eyes as you say, “We’ll have your belongings taken up to your room shortly. Shall there be any issues, we’ll be glad to help you, sir. Yumi.” You called for your assistant, breaking eye contact with Jongdae. Regardless, you feel the heat of his stare on you, unrelenting. “Show Mr. Kim to his room and send some refreshments up as soon as possible.”

You try to ignore the gnawing in your gut as you turn on your heels and walked in the opposite direction. It shouldn’t come as a surprise that one look at his face has brought hurricanes in your stomach. But it’s been a while since you’ve seen him and the fact of the matter...is that you can’t stop seeing him. Not in your dreams when you sleep. Not in your bed when it’s empty. You can’t not imagine him still waking up in your bed, his fingers deep in your hair as he coax you out of slumber. He’s still living in the shadows, alluring and becking you towards him.

Not long after, you’re finally off the clock at seven, heading home to unwind your tense muscles. The knots rolling along your skin is in lieu of imagining lips pressing on them. A good, hot shower is what you need to rid yourself of the same repetitive ghost of his lips. It scalds your skin until they’re pink and blotchy, until you’re satisfied that it burns enough to forget.

Going through your routine feels like white noise, passing with motions that feels too robotic until you’re finally tucked in bed. You sleep for maybe three hours until your work phone blares loudly in your dark room, waking you up. It’s the front desk. What could they possibly need from you at one in the morning? They don’t tell you why, specifically, just that the hotel needs your assistance immediately.

You throw on the first thing you can think of, which is one of your workout leggings and a hoodie. You realize your fuck up after the fact, and curse yourself when you’re plunged into 40 degree weather, in the dead of night. In the middle of autumn. Technically winter.

Was your promotion really worth this nonsense?

You hop in your car and arrive at the hotel in just 10 minutes because there’s no one. In the streets. This late.

“Whatever, it is, Hyunjoong, it better be worth being my coffee runner for the next two weeks,” you gritted through your teeth. It’s clamp down a little to hard, from the cold, you suppose. Hyunjoong, who hasn’t stopped looking at you like you’re a savior sent from heaven, walks with you all the way to the “emergency”.

“What’s wrong with one of the VIP guests?” You voiced when you see what floor he presses, bring you both up to the floor reserved only for important figures.

“He wouldn’t tell me,” Hyunjoong shrugs, pouting. “He just demanded to see Manager Han.”

You’re Manager Han, but not every guest knew your name well enough too request for you like that. As the elevator comes to a stop, the door opening with a ding!, you can help the knots in your stomach from forming. You’re still shivering, slightly, from the cold, but when Hyunjoong knocks on the guest’s door and Jongdae appears a second after, you’re shaking with nerves.

Jongdae leans on the opened doorway, a little too heavily from your observation. And one look into his eyes and you know your assumption is right. He’s drunk, and Lord knows why he’s drunk requesting for you, the manager.

“Mr. Kim,” you greet tersely. “I got it from here, Hyunjoong. You may be excused.” You hate that even now, you’re worried about Jongdae. About how he’ll regret making a fool of himself because of another one of his careless actions.

Jongdae doesn’t say a word, just stand there and blankly stare at you. You manage to work up the nerve to grab onto his arm, gently ushering him back into his suite, safe from the rest of the world. He walks rather well for a tipsy man, only stumbling once when he seemed to have gotten a little excited to see you again. He even mutters your name, sounding all too longing, but you pretend that didn’t happen.

“What is it that you need, Jongdae?” You figured at this point, there really was no point in being formal with a man you’ve been in relations of anything but.

He’s staring at you, not saying a word, and it unnerves you how silent he is. The Jongdae you used to know was loud and boisterous, only ever shutting up when he was working.

“Dae?”

“D-did I ever tell you how beautiful your eyes are?” He finally says. His first words to you in three fucking months. He walks closer towards you, until he’s within reach, lifting his hand to cup your hot yet cold cheeks with his right hand. Jongdae traces the curve of your under eyes as he looks and looks into your eyes.

Time works in mysterious ways. It ages us, tires us, even strengthens us. But why is it that after just one look-- one proper look into Jongdae’s eyes-- your time collapses and you’re back in his arms, sleeping in on the weekends and basking in the warmth of his kisses? Oh, right, it’s because you still love him.

“Once or twice, maybe. But I remember saying it more than you,” you quipped. It takes him a moment, but a smile eventually graces his face and he stares all too lovingly at you. You who is still trembling from everything.

Tipsy Jongdae’s notes the clothing you wear, or lack thereof because workout leggings? In 40 degrees? And it’s a capris?

“You’re cold,” he states rather observantly. You have half a mind to blame him for your unfortunate clothing situation, but then he moves to solve that problem for you, taking you into his arms that’s just as, if not more, warm than you remembered.

You allow yourself to settle in there are a while before, “You know I ought to kick you from pulling a move on me while you’re drunk?”

“But I’m not drunk, and I love you,” came his confession.

You won’t lie your heart didn’t stutter, beating its way back to life. “That’s what a drunk person would say.”

“I love you, Y/N.”

“...You’re drunk, Jongdae.”

“If you stay with me for the night, and I wake up still in love with you, then will you believe me?”

“I guess we’ll have to sleep through the night to find out, won’t we?”

#exo #jongdae #exo scenarios #jongdae scenarios #kim jongdae #exo jongdae #i swear i don't even call dae chen anymore LOL #I hope you liked it!!#thank you for requesting and for reading!#^^#i didn't mean to take this long to write #but i finished on jongdae's bday #so i guess it all worked out??!

31 notes · View notes

growingstronglikeahighgardenrose · 4 years

Text

Christmas Wishes

We’re nearing the end of my 12 days of Sanditon journey, this is the last Regency era fic. But it’s a long one to compensate. If brevity’s the soul of wit, I don’t have it.

Pairings: Babington/Esther, Crowe/Clara, Sidney/Charlotte

For the 12 Days of Sanditon Prompt ‘Tree’, hosted by @sanditoncreative

Synopsis: A Sanditon AU in which the Parkers and Denhams are rich, Crowe is a lord, and Babington isn’t.

Full story available on AO3

‘Miss Denham, Miss Heywood, Miss Brereton, I'd like to introduce my friends. This is Lord Crowe and Mr Babington.’

Esther, Charlotte and Clara studied the men in front of them. The Lord looked at them appreciatively, but he didn’t appear to be too steady on his feet. His friend, on the other hand, had quite a studious look about him with his beard and less stylish clothes.

‘Our friend assures us of good sport here,’ Lord Crowe smirked, ‘shall we find any?’

Another immature playboy, unable to grow up because he never had to worry about a thing in his life. Esther fought to refrain from rolling her eyes. Her aunt wished for her to marry soon and well, since she was already past twenty-five, but it appeared all men she met suffered from the same chronic ailments: stupidity and superficiality.

‘I believe there is very little shooting in the neighbourhood, sir.’

‘I wasn't thinking of shooting.’

Now her eyes were rolling, and she didn’t even care.

‘My friend was thinking of dancing, I'm sure’, the one named Babington said with a light-hearted laugh.

‘Could we persuade any of you young ladies to dance with us?’ Mr. Babington asked.

Clara’s eyes took in the drunk lord. No doubt she saw in him a way to escape her situation. ‘I'm sure you could, sir’, Esther replied as Clara and Lord Crowe were already taking each other by the arm.

The bearded man offered Esther his arm and she took it, allowing him to take her to the dance floor.

Your brother will be very pleased with you, Mr Parker’, Charlotte smiled.

‘Yes, I hope so. Crowe’s a well-intentioned man, he just has a couple of bad habits he has a hard time kicking. But what’s more important, he's a good friend of the Prince Regent. Now, if he could be convinced into coming to Sanditon, then the general rejoicing would be unconfined, I imagine.’

Charlotte couldn’t help but agree as the two continued their walk.

‘So, Mr. Babington. A friend of Mr. Parker?’

‘Ah, yes. I taught him at college.’

‘You’re a professor?’

‘I’m only a doctor, unfortunately, the world does not need many of those’, he admitted with some shame.

It was a polite way to say he had a hard time finding a job, but the man was a scholar nonetheless. At least he would be more interesting to talk to than the other guests present.

‘What’s your field of expertise?’

‘Economy and Philosophy.’

‘Practical studies and formulas versus the study field of dreamers? How odd.’

He couldn’t help but respond to her amused smile with a laugh of his own.

‘Ah, but the economy as it is, is proof of a certain philosophy. Right now, the philosophy of our economy is capitalism and liberalism. Our economy is formed by our idea of what a good economy should be. I enjoy reflecting on economic systems. You frown, Miss Denham, do I displease you? Perhaps you find the topic tedious. I confess, it isn’t the most engaging topic for most people. Forgive me, I am not used to the company of women, or society in general.’

‘I don’t mind philosophy, but I rather dislike economy. It’s only money.’

Mr. Babington’s eyebrows rose, as would anyone who didn’t know Esther Denham but knew how much influence money had on one’s life.

‘I don’t like sounding superficial, Miss Denham, but money is never just money.’

She rolled her eyes.

‘I dislike money because in my opinion, far too many people consider money the ultimate goal. Everyone’s obsessed with it. According to me, it is a means to an end, not a goal in and of itself.’

‘Ah, there is a philosopher in you’, he laughed.

‘You thought me shallow?’ she inquired, raising an eyebrow.

He shook his head vehemently, before turning her around.

‘No I did not. You never gave that impression. I simply misunderstood your previous statement given your position in society, but I understand now. I believe I agree, but just to be safe, might I enquire as to what you deem a worthy goal?’

He was incredibly honest, Esther had to give him that. Even though she was pretty sure he’d just confessed to being surprised that a rich woman didn’t care a lot about money, she found herself interested in continuing the conversation. If he kept it up this way, she was almost tempted to have a second dance with him after this one.

But now she wished to impress him, instead of answering with generally accepted goals. Unfortunately for her, her goals were in fact quite commonplace.

‘A goal could be happiness, ample money helps to take away worry and makes one able to do things one enjoys. To have a happy marriage would be a goal, if both or one partner are wealthy enough, they are able to marry instead of being kept apart by circumstance. Children are a goal, and money comes in useful to provide for them when they need clothes or a doctor.’

‘Just my two cents’, Esther shrugged.

‘Now I understand, and now I can say I agree?’

‘I thought a philosopher always managed to critique or question a certain idea.’

‘Oh I can, but I don’t see a particularly big flaw in your line of thinking.’

‘Humour me, provide me with one critical note.’

‘There are philosophers, and countless of everyday examples, of poor people being very happy, and rich people being miserable, of children lacking in nothing with parents having plenty of money yet dying.’

‘Money helps achieve a goal. It helps. There’s still other forces at play. But I daresay for the majority of people, money is necessary to at least have a shot at reaching their goals. Those who can be content despite incredibly poor circumstances, are few and far between.’

‘I know. I knew my argument was weak, and I already agreed with you, but since you asked, I told you. I would not dare to go against a lady’s wishes.’

That made her smile, and decide to have another dance with him should he ask. But Lord Crowe asked her for the next, and Babington didn’t try again.

♦♦♦♦♦♦

‘Aunt, what is that?’ Esther asked upon entering the room her aunt was currently occupying with her commanding presence.

‘You too?’ Lady Denham asked. Clara shot her an apologetic look, but Esther simply turned away. Their bond had bettered, but she still hadn’t forgotten her frolicking with Edward.

‘A pineapple. I’ll host a dinner to celebrate Miss Lambe’s arrival to Sanditon. New money always comes in handy in places like these. Had your brother not been the stupid oaf he was, I might have been able to couple them, but he simply had to squander away his life the way he did. No matter. Miss Lambe needs to be convinced of the merits of Sanditon to invest in it, and Lord Crowe needs to be convinced of yours, Esther.’

‘Excuse me?’

‘Lord Crowe is a prize well worth the winning. You will be seated next to him. And you will present yourself as a lovely and eligible wife. You are a wealthy English lady of impeccable family. I am well aware that you have so far frittered away these advantages and wasted your most beautiful years with walking, painting and reading silly books, but you must marry one day and he is rich and has important acquaintances. I married well twice to ensure our family had money. I only ask you to marry well once. Though it is unfortunate he appears to be young and in good health.’

‘The man’s a drunk’, Esther sighed while ignoring the stabs her aunt tried to deliver.

‘You may prize yourself lucky if that’s his only fault. Besides, most drunks can’t do a lot. At least he’ll leave you in peace.’

‘Perhaps you should put him with Clara, since she didn’t seem to mind yesterday.’

Her cousin threw her a shocked look, but didn’t disagree. She would be stupid to insist on not sitting beside such a wealthy bachelor.

‘No, no. There will be no escaping this Esther, you have to try at least.’

‘Doesn’t Clara have to marry as well?’

‘Yes, but you’re the easier one to marry off. You have money and name.’

‘One could say that after attending two season a year for almost ten years in a row, she is obviously not easy to marry off’, Clara noted sharply.

‘Girls. What did I tell you after that fleabag left? There would be no fighting over my inheritance and there would be no animosity between the two of you. But if this is the case, I shall put both of you next to him. Betting on two horses has always been the wiser strategy. I trust you do understand the difference between the arts of courtship and sarcasm, Esther? I hope I do. You'd better. If neither of you secures him, I will be very disappointed in you. And you don't want to fall out of favour with me, do you?’

‘No, Aunt’, the girls replied.

‘You have your work cut out for you. That man has seen a lot of the world, and without a doubt a lot of women. It shall take no little amount of flirting and being pretty to make him choose country girls over the age of twenty like yourselves. Once you've secured his hand in marriage, you can go back to wasting your days like usual. I want to see both of you married before Christmas. And that is both a wish and a command.’

The girls nodded and waited until Lady Denham left before Esther went back to her novel, and Clara to her piano.

#12 days of sanditon #esther/babington

6 notes · View notes

waterchestnut123 · 4 years

Text

CH 6 | To Catch A Turtle Dove

Fandom: One Piece Setting: Victorian AU Genre: Action, Adventure, Humor, Friendship, Romance. Pairings: Law/Nami Rating: M - Mature (for language, drinking and alcohol, death and some moderate gore, other adult themes)

Read on AO3 / Tumblr Chapter Index < Prev | Next >

-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-

Chapter 6: Filling Pockets

It was when she could take no more of the cold—cheeks thoroughly numbed and gloved fingers stiff, that she deemed it safe to return to the warm interior of the ballroom. When she crossed the threshold back into the noisy hall, regretfully leaving her warm blanket behind with the butler, the music was in full swing and the ballroom boisterous.

Though she was still chilled and not presently keen on moving air, she nonetheless flipped open her fan and began gently fanning herself to hide the lower portion of her face as she scanned the ballroom for the two people she most wished to avoid: the Lord and Lady. Several dozen couples waltzed elegantly across the dance floor to a lively tune and she spotted Lady Lami among them, smiling graciously as she was twirled by a red-faced gentleman at least twice her age. The woman she had met earlier in the company of her brother—Jacqueline Daine, was also dancing, being pulled along by a short but cheerful looking young man. Her eyes lingered several moments longer, but try though she might, she could not find the Lord among them.

She began walking along the periphery of the crowd, eyes scanning the rest of the room—those not currently dancing. The tables were half-filled with seated couples and groups, and many milled about the edges of the dance floor, watching or talking to one another; that was where she spotted him. He stood in conversation with a half dozen other gentleman near the front-facing windows, glasses of champagne in every hand, clearly quite occupied by the discussion.

Judging by the amount of time which had passed, the still-growing crowd of dancers, and the scant few empty glasses littering the tables, she guessed most were still on their first glass of champagne or just starting their second; she therefore still had another half hour at least before it would be safe to begin hitting her marks. She just needed to kill a little more time.

Turning for the interior wall, she slowly navigated the crowds opposite the side of the room the Lord was engaged in conversation on, carefully avoiding any glances his way. When she made it to the opposite side of the ballroom, she quietly snuck out through the double doors and into the parlor, making a beeline for the crackling fire at the end of the room by which to warm herself.

The Parlor was, thankfully, largely deserted, save for the odd canoodling couple or servant passing through. It would be a perfect place to wait out the time. She took up residence upon a love seat, half-hidden behind a railing and a potted plant and near the fire, closing her eyes as the warm air graced her cold cheeks. She amused herself listening to the conversation which passed through the room, keeping an ear tuned for slurred words and overloud voices—telltale signs the guests had begun to overindulge. She was not left waiting long.

While the women may have seemed quite taken with the Lord, the men, it appeared, were of a very different mind.

“The nerve!”

The exclamation was accompanied by rapid footsteps as a man came barreling through the ballroom doors, another hot on his heels. She heard him pacing on the rug—muffled though the sound was, anger clear in the heaviness of his footsteps and mild inebriation evident in the volume of his voice.

“—in front of the head of the trade commission no less! Insinuating I, of all people, am incompetent. It is he who is incompetent—running Flevance into the damn ground! Profits have been on a steady decline because of his tariffs—not through any fault of mine! How does he expect a shipping company to survive fifteen percent?! The nerve of that BASTARD—!”

“Keep your voice down,” another man—older by the sound of his gruff voice, whispered, urgently but firmly. “You would do well to remember you are his guest, in his home. Control yourself.”

“Father, surely you—”

“Control yourself, Riven,” the older man reiterated, tone steely and voice rising ever so slightly.

She heard a sudden thud—presumably a boot hitting the wall, before a heavy release of breath. Curiosity growing, she subtly turned her head, side-eyeing the two men who stood near the closed door opposite the open ballroom through a gap in the railing. One was a young man of perhaps thirty, head lowered with two fingers pinching the bridge of his nose. Sandy blonde hair was neatly slicked back, and the coattails of his crisp black suit still fluttered with the momentum of his kick. Beside him stood an older man with similar features, gray beginning to overtake his blonde hair at the temples, expression guarded.

When the young man spoke again, his voice was controlled—but only just.

“I think I will step outside for some air. I shall return to the table shortly, Father.”

The older man grunted. “See that you do. And son—you held yourself well. Lord Trafalgar can be a… frustrating man.”

Another sigh.

“Thank you, Father.”

She turned back to the fire, gazing into the crackling flames. The shuffle of footsteps told her the men had parted, and she found herself biting her lip in thought.

Lord Trafalgar was proving more and more interesting. Irresistible to the ladies despite his apparent reputation (the nature of which she could only assume to be some shade of dark if Brook’s warning and the rumors she’d overheard were anything to go by), and antagonistic to the men. Apparently notoriously reclusive—having rarely been seen by the general public these past eight years—and with no end of rumor and gossip, both good and bad, surrounding him and his rule. And perhaps most unusual—nearly thirty and still unmarried, with no apparent heir. She was certainly no Robin, who doubtless had a firmer grasp on Flevance’s political history; but even she could tell it was an odd combination of circumstances and opinions—and difficult to pick apart what held truth. Part of her was becoming entirely too curious to find out just who this mystery man was.

But a good thief never revealed herself to their target if she could help it—and Nami intended to abide that principle as much as possible. The mystery that was Lord Trafalgar would simply have to remain as such—a mystery.

A group of giggling, stumbling girls were next to enter into the parlor, clearly having had one too many flutes of champagne, and Nami deemed it to be just about the right time to start her rounds. She rose to stand, pulling out her fan once more as she slowly navigated her way down the small set of steps and around the corner into the ballroom, chatter and music growing louder as she stepped out onto the parquet.

She glanced idly around the room as she slowly moved further inside, searching for her first victim. She quickly spotted him attempting and failing to woo a young woman who quickly dismissed herself from his company. He was objectively unattractive despite his regal attire—a pointed face and awkward posture with a stutter to boot. Even from the balcony hours ago, as walked the perimeter of the ballroom doing her first assessment of the guests, she could tell he reeked both of money and an insecure need to be liked. He had been the first she’d painted with a target.

She walked in his direction though she avoided looking at him directly, lowering her fan to reveal a coy half-smile to no one in particular. His eyes immediately caught on her and, as she’d hoped, he headed her way. When he was within feet of her she elegantly stumbled, falling directly into his waiting arms.

“Oh, I’m so sorry! How clumsy of me,” she gushed, leaning into his embrace. Clever fingers dipped into his open jacket, nimbly extracting a leather billfold and platinum pocket watch, withdrawn items hidden between their two bodies. In seconds she tucked them neatly inside one of her many pockets and righted herself.

“Oh, m-my,” he stuttered, awkwardly smoothing his hair as he released her, though he did not step away. “Are you quite alr-right, Miss?”

“Oh, I am now, thank you!” she simpered, giving him a winning smile. He smiled in return, glancing unsubtly at the dance floor before opening his mouth to inquire; but she beat him to the punch.

“If you’ll excuse me, I’m due to meet someone at my table.”

Then, with a sudden turn she sashayed away, leaving the man open mouthed and blinking behind her.

Over the next hour she hit eight more targets, each with varying twists to her approach. For one gentleman she tripped a young lady walking nearby, who spilled her drink all over his dress coat. Nami, being a kindly concerned bystander, immediately offered to take it from him and dab it dry with a napkin she just so happened to be holding as the blushing young woman tended to his vest. And, of course, when she returned it to him, it was missing a few notable items from the confines of its pockets.

Another man—quite drunk and overly handsy, she allowed to corner her in section of the ballroom populated by what she deemed to be “white knight” types. As he made his advance she neatly swiped his valuables before making a pathetic and very public attempt at nervous rejection—which lured in another unsuspecting victim who gallantly pulled the man from her person, apologizing to her as he escorted the drunk away. Between the two of them, she scored two gold pocket watches, an elaborate watch chain, a silver money clip—filled with bills, and an inlaid mother-of-pearl scarf pin. By the time her knight in shining armor had returned, she was long gone.

With the ball now at its peak and the dance floor filled with couples, she turned from the men to the women. Nimbly weaving her way through the crowd to the tables, she casually brushed up against them as she passed. Unattended purses littered the area, lying open on the edges of tables and hanging from the backs of chairs. She targeted those she could most easily and subtly access passing inconspicuously by, swiping money, jewelry, gold powder cases, diamond-studded barrettes and brooches, small silver hand mirrors, and dainty silver combs. In between purses, she grabbed gold napkin holders and intricate silver flatware from the table settings. A half hour later, as she once more put distance between her and her victims—a blanket wrapped around her shoulders on the chill, abandoned balcony, she couldn’t help the smile rising to her face at the weight the filched goods added to her gown. It was the most she had ever snatched at once.

And best of all—none seemed any the wiser. Ladies danced, carefree, on the ballroom floor. Gentleman flirted and drank—yet to notice their missing affects. And here she was, gown filled with stolen goods, unnoticed and overlooked.

She had never felt so powerful, nor so alive.

But there was one more target she planned to hit tonight—the cherry on top of this most delicious cake: the mysterious Lord Trafalgar himself.

According to the blueprints Franky had acquired for her, the Lord’s private study was also on the first floor, and a small inset into the wall strongly suggested, according to Franky, the presence of a hidden safe. Now that she had seen the incredible splendor of the castle, she could scarcely imagine what wealth lay hidden within. Though she already had more goods that were of a value greater than her last three jobs combined, with the possibilities locked away in the Lord’s private safe? She could, perhaps, at long last do it—she could save up enough to afford Nojiko’s surgery.

She could finally save her sister.

Behind her she heard the soft click of footsteps and glanced absently over her shoulder to see who had joined her out on the chill balcony. To her dismay she recognized the face of the man who strolled out into the night air, cheeks a faint but distinct pink. He glanced about casually, quickly spotting her, a smile broadening on his face as his trajectory turned in her direction.

“Ah, we meet again!”

It was Phillip Daine, but this time he was without the company of his sister.

She smiled, nodding, making clear moves for the ballroom.

“So we do,” she agreed demurely, “But I’m afraid I was just heading back inside—its become a bit too cold out here for me.”

He shook his head, approaching her and draping an arm over her shoulder, turning her around with startling strength and speed.

“Nonsense! It is too beautiful a night—just look how the snow glitters in the light! Allow me to keep you warm instead.”

Were she in any other situation she would have cuffed the man on the ears for his audacity; but she wasn’t, and instead she merely forced her smile to remain, allowing him to lead her to the balcony’s edge.

“Now… I don’t believe I got your name before,” he continued smoothly, arm holding her far closer than would have been strictly appropriate.

“My name is Bellemére,” she offered with some reluctance.

“Ah, what a lovely name for such a lovely face,” he crooned, attempting to lay on his idea of charm. He turned to look at her, raising his other hand to brush her cheek gently. She stiffened. This was going nowhere good.

“Thank you, that… is very kind.”

Attempting to put some space between them, she adjusted her makeshift shawl, side-stepping slightly in the process; but his hold was unyielding. Her smile faltered.

“You know,” he commented lightly, pulling her just a little closer as he turned to look down at her again, “I don’t believe we ever got a chance to share that dance you promised.”

She laughed softly, struggling harder to suppress her violent urges.

“I don’t believe I made any promises,” she responded playfully, making another subtle attempt to side-step him, to no avail.

“Ah, but the promise was in your eyes, Miss Bellemére,” he said softly.

He turned her to face him then, arm around her waist. She was loath to cause a scene or draw attention to herself, but subtlety with this man was getting her nowhere fast. She placed a hand on his chest and pushed gently but firmly, attempting a kindly, measured tone.

“A dance later would be lovely; Unfortunately I am expected, so I really must be getting back inside…”

His grip tightened.

“Ah, but where is your festive spirit! I haven’t seen you dance once, all night.”

Her forced smile was very near breaking. So. Philip was the type not to take no for an answer. That made this… immeasurably more difficult. If she was forceful, she risked drawing attention to herself. If she allowed him to have his way, she would likely never be rid of his company—not to mention the possibility of unwanted advances. Her heart rate began to quicken as she hurriedly debated how direct and aggressive to be in order to secure her escape—and whether she may have to cut her plans for the Lord’s study short, salvation came in a most unexpected form.

“Ah, Philip! There you are—your sister is looking for you!”

Philip turned, momentarily startled before smiling at their unexpected guest: none other than Lady Lami Trafalgar herself.

“Ah, My Lady! I’m afraid she will have to wait—I was just about to share a dance with the lovely Miss Bellemére.”

Lami smiled smoothly, glancing between the two. “I’m afraid it’s rather urgent—apparently she has lost her favorite brooch and is quite distressed. She asked for you straight away.”

Though her expression was friendly and her words were kind, there was a flintiness in her smiling eyes and a command beneath her honeyed tone. Philip paused a moment before finally releasing her and stepping away, giving Lami a short bow.

“Of course. Thank you, my Lady, for passing on the message.”

He turned to Nami, reaching for her hand and lifting it to his lips, eyes lingering meaningfully on hers. “I hope to see you again later, Miss Bellemére.”

Without waiting for a reply he turned and walked stiffly through the double doors into the ballroom. Nami let out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding.

“I’m terribly sorry about that. Philip rather fancies himself more charming than he is—and his family’s place as second in the line for the succession tends to give him rather a large head.”

Nami glanced up to find the Lady approaching, hugging her own shawl around her shoulders as she eyed her with a friendly if teasing smile. Though grateful for the save—and impressed by the woman’s ability to wield soft power, Nami felt her fingers twitch. The Lady of the house was not one she wished to draw the eye of. She needed to think up an escape, and fast.

“Ah—thank you, My Lady,” Nami started with a smile, offering a small curtsy as her brain worked fervidly, eyes darting briefly to the door. The Lady was sharper than she gave her credit for, though, quickly noticing Nami’s subtle glance. Her eyes crinkled with unvoiced laughter.

“Don’t worry, I won’t keep you,” she said humorously. “I imagine you wish to get back to your family. Please don’t hesitate to let I or one of the staff know if you find yourself subject to any more… unwanted attention. I do hope you’ve otherwise enjoyed the ball thus far?”

“Yes, I have,” Nami replied honestly—though the reason why was, she imagined, quite different than the one Lami anticipated. “Thank you again, my Lady,” Nami continued, “I… would rather like to head back inside.” An involuntary shiver followed her statement.

“Of course, of course! After you?” Lami turned, gesturing towards the ballroom entrance with a quirked brow. Nami strode quickly across the balcony, making for the open doors and gratefully stepping back into the warmth. She handed off her shawl to the waiting butler and Lami did the same, bidding her a friendly farewell as she gracefully walked back across the room.

Nami, for her part, needed a moment to catch her breath.

She hurried her way through the jostling crowd back to the entrance of the ballroom and up the stairs to the second floor balcony which was, she was grateful to find, deserted. With a breath, she allowed herself to lean against the bannister, absently eying the dancing crowd.

That was… an uncomfortably close encounter. It didn’t seem as though it would cause any disruption to her plans, as the interaction had been relatively brief and uneventful; but still, she berated herself for allowing such an incident to occur at all.

She stood quietly, listening to the graceful music echo through the ballroom, breathing deeply as she re-centered herself. She needed to focus, to turn her attention back to her final target—the Lord’s study.

The night was nearing its end and her timing had to be just right; she needed to get in, take what she could, and get out in time to leave with the departing crowds. Barring the encounter with Phillip and Lady Lami, the night was going flawlessly, and she needed to ride that momentum through to her final theft and straight out the front door.

She waited, leaning against the bannister for several more minutes, going over her plan in her head again. First: a distraction to allow her to sneak away unnoticed; then, follow the winding halls to the Lord’s study—get in and out, and back into the parlor before anyone noticed she was missing. The only thing left, was to come up with an appropriate distraction. She had the rough outlines of several potential plans forming in her head, gaze roving the ballroom for inspiration. As her eyes fell upon the sandy haired man she had overheard in the parlor, a plan began to coalesce. Yes… that would work perfectly.

Slowly, casually, she headed back down the stairs out into the ballroom, eyes sweeping the crowd, searching for… there.

Not far from where she stood at the edge of the dance floor was the man who had complained about the lord earlier in the parlor—Riven, if her memory served. If his vocal complaints hadn’t already tipped her off, just by looking at him she could tell he was a proud man; and by the pink of his cheeks she could further assume he’d had quite a bit to drink—perhaps even to take the edge off his anger. She smiled to herself. It would take little provocation to achieve her desired result.

She lifted a glass of champagne from the tray of a nearby butler to look the part, taking a quick sip before stopping mid-step near him, allowing him in his uncoordinated state to accidentally bump into her, sloshing her drink.

“Oh, I’m so sorry, Miss! Are you alright?” he questioned in alarm, stopping and turning to her with concern. However, as his eyes swept her figure, gaze lingering at the dip of her breasts between which her pendant necklace rested, his expression morphed into a boyish smile.

“No, no I’m quite alright, sir,” she said sweetly, offering a coquettish smile. His gaze sharpened on her as he took her hand, lifting it to his lips.

“And who is the lovely lady I have the pleasure of meeting?”

She giggled girlishly, batting her lashes.

“My name is Bellemére. And you…” she squinted her eyes before nodding in faux recognition. “You must be Inkholm! I’ve heard so much about you!”

He released her hand, righting himself and glancing at her in confusion.

“Inkholm?”

She nodded enthusiastically. “Yes, I was just speaking with Philip out on the balcony—Philip Daine? He told me all about you. He said your name was Inkholm Pentent? You work in shipping, correct?”

She continued to smile at him with an oblivious air, tilting her head endearingly for good measure. She watched as the gears turned slowly in his head, face beginning to redden from something other than his drink. He kept his smile though, as he cocked his head stiffly at her.

“No, actually, my name is Riven, Miss Bellemére. I’m afraid you’ll have to excuse me—I have some business to attend.”

Then he turned, glancing about the room, making a beeline for where Phillip stood chatting up a giggling girl near the tables. She suppressed a grin.

She made her way once more for the entrance to the ballroom, taking her time meandering through the crowd. She was lingering in the doorway when she heard it—raised, angry voices coming from the far side of the room, and confused murmurs erupting around her as heads turned.

She took that as her cue. Turning, she headed casually into the parlor as curious ladies and gentleman hurried from the room to see what all the commotion was about, moving towards the closed door opposite the ballroom. Glancing around quickly—the room had indeed emptied of servants and guests alike—she pressed her ear against the door, closing her eyes to focus on any sounds coming from beyond. Nothing.

She pulled back, carefully reaching into one of the hidden pockets of her gown and pulling from its confines her full lock pick tool set arranged neatly inside a folded leather roll. She quickly unfurled it, eying the lock in front of her and expertly assessing it to be a pin tumbler. Selecting her tension wrench and hook pick, she inconspicuously lowered them to the lock, covering her activities with her skirt. It was more difficult and time consuming to do standing, but in less than a minute she felt the pins align and turned the wrench, the lock sliding out of place; and that’s when she heard it: a startled scream followed by an angry shout echoing from within the ballroom, and an abrupt halt to the music. A fight had broken out.

She hastily pulled her tools out, shoving them into her pocket. With a twist of her wrist she pushed the door open, stepping inside and shutting it soundlessly behind her.

She was in.

She hurried down the long, empty hallway, dress swishing quietly as she walked. The guests were distracted and the clock was ticking—but she knew the twists and turns of this castle now like the back of her hand.

It would be less than a minute before she reached the Lord’s private study. Soon, all his treasures would be hers for the taking—and none would be any the wiser.

-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-

Read on AO3 / Tumblr Chapter Index < Prev | Next >

7 notes · View notes