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terrence-silver · 4 months

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Do you think Terry Silver was drafted, enlisted, or was forced to do either or by his father? Because there was definitely a time frame when rich people were dodging the draft all together, buying their way out, or used being enrolled at school as a way to get out of it. Terry definitely had all those options at his disposal but I feel like it's sort of implied his dad was making a lot of his decisions for him at that point in his life. Which leads me to wonder what his relationship with his parents even looked like.

---

People never consider Terry Silver went to Vietnam...because he wanted to.

And it's precisely because up until that point, his old man was calling all the shots.

Making all the decisions.

Everyone always removes Terry's agency entirely.

Like, there's always these super complex theories on why he did it (and I fell into these myself for a while too) and while I appreciate those complicated ideas immensely, the more I think about it, the more it stands to reason Terry was simply hugely Patriotic. Can we not see it? In the way he talks about Vietnam in the 80's, for example? There's definite pride there, like the man absolutely, well, dare I say, liked the fact he has a military background to himself? In the original, it never seemed like he was forced into it. Serving in the army was simply something a young man was supposed to do back then; a norm of sorts. A rite of passage into manhood. Answering the call of duty? A given expectation. Buying one's way out? An utmost cowardice. Different times, different mentality. Terry was an American Exceptionalist and the minute he felt there was something he could do to show his loyalty and devotion to the cause (and maybe even retaliate over what he felt was American interests and Expansionism...because we do know he has his own set of prejudices for sure) he was on the first plane out of the country. He volunteered. He didn't have to do that, but he wanted to. And we do know when Terry wants to do something, good luck trying to talk him out of it. Vietnam could've been the first taste of true integrity and freedom of choice Terry Silver ever had in his life. The first taste of him being in control of his decisions, growing up in a rich, oppressive family with many expectations and a path firmly set, undoubtedly. Going to fight for what you believed in? It was liberty.

Would also be ironic if it was actually his father who didn't want him to go serve.

A typical reaction for a parent. Even a despotic one.

Visualize that.

Terry's father who considered his son is ungrateful. So ungrateful!

"We give you everything and off you go, gallivanting knee deep in jungle mud on the other side of the World, risking your life and limb with a bunch of greasy tikes with suspicious backgrounds who smoke the reefer and bring home Herpes! Most of them don't have a pot to piss in! They've nothing to lose and they've nothing to look forward to either. Unlike you! You're the person they'd come turning to for a job when they're back from the muck. You're not the same. You never will be."

Read that with a slightly Transatlantic accent.

Terry's father might've felt Terry had everything he already needed at home and that he was more useful taking over the family company and focusing on what he was always meant to do and let the working class fight working class battles overseas --- added bonus is, that if we consider his family Jewish, that his father could've thought that they shouldn't be here laying down their life for a bunch of gentiles and mostly outsiders who, given the right historical circumstances, might be here turning the barrel of their guns just as easily towards them next --- after all, if Terry Silver was born somewhere in the midcentury, vaguely speaking, his father was probably born a little before WWII just according to some very basic math and my god, does that explain a lot. The shadow of intergenerational trauma looms awfully closely over this family, which opens a whole new can of worms. I can envision that his father felt, much like most rich people feel, that their family is an insular microcosm of its own and that they don't owe anyone anything and should primarily mind their own business, but here Terry was, going against his parent's explicit wishes to try and be a big, damn hero, wasting his time when his time would've been better applied with the family interests. Can totally imagine Terry as a pampered family princeling who ran away from home to go off with the army. Would explain the line of a young Terry telling John that his father expects him to leave ''the whole Vietnam thing behind''. Stands to reason...if his father never approved of him being there in the first place. That Terry Silver's dad hit him with a big 'I told you so' the minute he was back and very much changed by his experience out there.

And even more worryingly, even in spite of that, knowing what he knew upon his return, I imagine Terry Silver would go again if he could...which is just...very dark to consider. A victim and an oppressor always craves to return to the scene of the crime.

#okay but terry silver being really patriotic is just...believable #terry silver #kk3 #cobra kai #character analysis #tw; vietnam #tw; war #tw; period typical attitudes #terry silver's father #terry silver's dad #silver family #terry silver's parents

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elianas-cozycorner · 1 year

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𝓞𝓷 𝓟𝓲𝓷𝓼 𝓪𝓷𝓭 𝓝𝓮𝓮𝓭𝓵𝓮𝓼 | 𝓢𝓬𝓻𝓸𝓸𝓰𝓮 (2022)

𝘊𝘩𝘢𝘱𝘵𝘦𝘳 Three (Part 1) | Jacob Marley

Summary: After dismissing Bob Cratchit and Ms. Blackwood from his office, Ebenezer Scrooge makes his way home. Hopeful to have a quite evening, the man is utterly unprepared for what comes next.

Author's Note: I'm so sorry for the chapter delay, loves! Mental health got the better of me, as did schooling.

I struggled to find a good mid-way point between the two halves of this chapter and with how much film/book content to actually include. I hope skipping around some parts and only including the important bits is something that works for you guys, but please let me know! I looove feedback!

As you will see, this chapter is very, very long. I actually had to cut it into two parts. I am still working on the second half (which will become chapter 4), so please stay tuned for that! (ﾉ°³ °)ﾉ

Word Count: 4017 Ao3 - Mature Rating WARNINGS: None! :)

Please let me know if you would like to be included in a tag list!

@the-house-of-auditore-frye

"No decent man, no self preserving gentleman, will want to wed you. You will die a spinster. That is your truth.” The man stands there, chest heaving from such an impassioned speech, and has the gaul to look self satisfied.

“So no, madam, I will not be joining you, nor anyone else, in any celebration of this wretched season.”

/////

‘Ebenezer Scrooge…’

The grandfather clock ticks away, mocking him as he paces in his office. Ebenezer takes one turn, then another, before slowly retracing his steps. He begins blowing out his candles, starting with the one sitting on his desk.

‘Scrooge…’ A ghastly pull of air, whooshing into the silence, goes unheard by the miser. The glass encasing the candle is overcome by a ghostly apparition, fleeting and flickering though it may be. It too goes unnoticed.

The other candles soon meet the same fate, extinguished quickly and with little flourish. Ebenezer is no longer in the mood for dramatic flair. He’s had quite enough excitement for one week, let alone a single evening. He allows one uncovered light to continue flickering as he begins to lock up his funds. Meticulously, he collects every coin and weighs them out. He counts the rogue scale weights and odd ha’penny. But, as he lifts the coin purse from the scale, a feminine face stares back at him.

‘The pledges I’ve broken...’ He rolls his own sins through his mind. The woman stares at him from the shining metal and he cannot fight the wave of sadness that smashes his heart. ‘A fool I was.’

“Tell me,” He begins aloud and turns on his heel to face his mastiff. “Why should I be bright and merry? When all the things of this world conspire against me?”

He blows out the last candle and walks to the front room once more. Just one-and-twenty minutes ago he had sent home his clerk and ledgerman from the very spot he now stood. Just eleven minutes ago he had watched from his office, not ten paces back, as the seamstress fled his establishment in tears. A small twinge of regret runs through his heart, but he shakes it off with a snarl.

‘Ebenezer Scrooge…’ The call is deep, raspy, and once again goes unheard.

Ebenezer adjusts his vest and tailcoat, buttoning the latter item to better prepare for the winter weather. His foul mood only worsens as he pulls on his frock overcoat and top hat, as he now has a clear vantage point of the storm outside. The mild flecks of snow from his previous excursion are transformed into raging, swirling pebbles of ice and enormous flakes. It is as if the cold finds a way past the door and into his bones just from gazing out of the window. The accompanying wind bashes brutally against the glass and he regrets having allowed Ms. Blackwood entry this evening. Had he not permitted her into the counting house he would now be sitting comfortably at home by the fire.

“Come, Prudence,” He slips his gloves on and then slips out the door. “Let us get this over with.”

And so the pair march through the snow, one keeping her head low to avoid the cold flakes and the other trying to steady himself on the cobbles with his cane. No carriages roll down the lane, nor are there any people about. He passes one man advertising some ‘Christmas Extravaganza’ and is forced to take one of his papers. Scrooge thinks the man a fool for staying out so late yet does not bother to stop and tell him so. Instead, he presses on from the business district to the housing streets, happily bidding his nightly farewells to Cornhill Street. Each streetlamp threatens to flicker out as he goes on and soon he quickens his pace, unwilling to freeze over.

He moves onto the street, finding it better worn and less slippery than the walk way. Occasionally, the tips of his shoes flick up some snow and the metal of his cane slips on ice. The layers of white steadily build underfoot and distaste claws its way into the back of his throat. He can hear Prudence shuffling behind him and glances backward to check on her every so often. On one such check in, the hound seems to be occupied by the streetlamps. They flicker oddly in the corner of his eye, but he ignores it. Prudence, however, does not. The mastiff pauses, her long, low whine swallowed by the wind. She watches as the red flames swirl and flare into icy blues and deep indigos.

Feeling uneasy, her master turns abruptly. His eyes scan the empty street frantically, from one walkway to the other. He spins a little on his heel, looking about as though he were a startled doe. “Hello?”

Ebenezer takes a moment to glance down at the late Marley’s pet. “Did you feel that Prudence? A shift in the air… Like someone was just here.” A pause. “Oh, great heavens! What am I saying? You’re a dog.”

With a growl, the man pulls his top hat further over his forehead and slaps his thigh twice; it’s a gesture which beckons Prudence to his side once more. Within a couple breaths, his stately lodging comes into view. Just past Cornhill Street, standing proudly at the edge of Groveland Court, it would have been easy to miss with the darkness of night finally settling and the fog rising to cover the blackened gate. Fortunately for the miser, his servants (of which he keeps only two and on occasion hires a charwoman) had arranged his home in proper order this night. He struggles with the gate for a moment, grumbling under his breath the entire time, before finally reaching his doorstep. As he reaches for the door knocker, a chill rushes through him too mighty to be natural.

Ebenezer turns, sharp eyes glaring out into the steadily thickening blizzard. Nothing greets him. He turns back to the door, startling at the ghastly blue face that greets him in the knocker. He gasps aloud, tripping backwards for a moment.

“Ye gods!” But with a blink, the visage disappears.

With one hand over his heart, he uses the other to lift the offending metal. It remains as it should and the man has to blink away the residual shock. As he taps the intricately twisted rectangle against its backing, soft words leave his lips unprovoked. “I must have worked much too much, Prudence.”

He does not have time to do anything else as the door opens for him. A man stands on the other side, dressed down in evening wear. He welcomes Ebenezer inside, holding the door ajar for both man and dog. No words are exchanged as the lender passes his outerwear off to his doorman. Prudence makes her own way through the house and quickly disappears from sight.

“Paulette has set aside your evening wear, sir.” The man's voice is muffled as he moves into a room adjoining the foyer. “I shall be up momentarily to-”

“No, thank you, Charles. I am capable of caring for myself this evening. I have the bell, should I need you.” Scrooge sighs harshly.

He moves up the stairs that curl up and around the back of the foyer, stopping briefly halfway to bark an order. He does not look back, nor acknowledge the fact that his footman is in another room. “I will take dinner in the parlour, have Paulette light the fireplace. I expect my armchair has been moved accordingly?”

Charles reappears in the doorway, but the rustling of his clothes are not enough to draw the money lender’s eye. “All is as it was last evening, sir.”

“Good.” A couple more steps up and then– “Once you are through with your tasks, go home.”

“Pardon?” The surprise is plain to read from Charles’ tone.

Ebenezer Scrooge turns, aiming a glare at the man. “I do not wish to be further disturbed this season. You will not be required on the morrow, neither will I require Paulette. Take her with you, before the storm prevents you. I understand that you may wish to spend the day with family.”

“Thank you, sir–”

“Get on with your work, Charles.” A dismissive flick of the hand sends the footman scurrying.

/////

The green nightcap bounces against his shoulder blade as Scrooge stands from his armchair. The fire’s warm glow is slowly dwindling and not a tendril of sleep touched the miser. Unlike the dog sprawled just beside the fireplace, half asleep with a bone in her mouth. Taking the poker, he gently prods the coals. He watches, entranced by the fire as it roars back to life, and imagines the day’s events played out in the oranges and reds. Yet, his green evening wear shimmers in the light and catches his attention. From the pocket of his robe, the corner of a paper crinkles loudly.

The flyer for the Liverpool Street Christmas Extravaganza greets him. With a shake of his head he thinks, ‘I thought Charles disposed of this garbage.’

He stares for another moment. “Every year, Prudence,” words both venomous and disappointed sound sweet on his wine-calmed tongue. “They are all filled with such joy, such gladness. They practically sparkle with it. They must know, surely, they must.”

He prods the fire a little harder before returning the poker to its rightful place. He replaces the empty space in his hand with the flyer. Scrooge squints at the page, turning it into the light to read it better, and speaks his opinions aloud, “With the growing surplus populus and housing crisis, not to mention the absolute mockery that is being made of good business with these workmen strikes, someone ought to treat these people tougher. Christmas? A humbug. It’s as though the entire city takes a day off! A day off, how ridiculous! Bring them down to size, I say.”

Prudence glances up as her owner’s voice increases in volume. She drops her bone, stands, and walks further away from him and the fire. By the time he crumples the flyer and tosses it into the flames, she is adrift in the world of canine dreams once more.

“I do not understand, will never understand, how they’re so cheery! I am not happy so why should they be? Do they not see how pointless and foul this holiday is? Well? Tell me!” He shouts, grabbing the poker once more to fully squash the remnants of the paper.

This time, however, as the poker meets the coals a bright flash of blue flame

rushes up to meet him. With a startled yelp, Ebenezer flies backward into his armchair. The blue flame shifts and whirls however, leaving the gentleman even worse for wear. It begins to freeze, ice and frost overtaking the fireplace and the wall. The mirror above the mantel is encased in pale, blue shards which soon erupt toward him. Icicles form on the chandelier, reaching down for him, and the wooden floorboards beneath groan with the chill. A ghastly face, somehow familiar, stretches across the brick in front of him. Its mouth is formed by the firebox, its bottom jaw running down and across the hearth. His name, once unheard and unnoticed, comes calling on the howling winds. Snow and hail smash at his feet, faster and faster the louder the roars of his name become. It is a hell which ends only when the ghost of his former employer floats before him. The armchair, a symbol of safety and normalcy for the miser, is pulled from under him. He watches it scratch across his floors, glide smoothly to his midnight caller, before ultimately becoming the visitor’s throne.

“J-J-Jacob Marley?” At first, Ebenezer speaks with fear. His voice trembles and he shakes in his slippers. Then he manages a grip on reality. “Impossible! You’re–”

“Dead?” Marley laughs and settles into the chair. “Quite right, my friend, quite right. And yet… Here I am! If anything, I am dead tired.”

“What in God’s name–” Scrooge steps forward again, a scowl on his face once more.

“Oh no, Ebenezer. Do not bring your God into this.” The phantom groans and waves his arms about him like he is physically pained. “No, no. I’m not here on that old business.”

“What? What are you talking about? Why are you here?” His friend’s confusion is plain to see and Marley laughs again.

“I do apologise for the dramatic entrance, old boy. Those in charge insist on a bit of… pageantry, elegance, hell, even spectacle if you will. Goes with the territory, as is apparent. But, I am sure you and I can discuss the rest like reasonable men. No?” He rubs a ghastly hand across the right side of his moustache. The phantom’s other hand reaches down, patting and brushing along the coat of his prior animal companion. He muses to her briefly as he allows Scrooge to process his coming.

The cogs practically screech to a stop inside the living gentleman’s head, his eyes brighten and he turns to the fire with a gentle smile. “Ah! Marley, I see it so: I must have drifted into slumber by the fire. I am dreaming! Oh what brilliance the mind does conjure!”

The shining, golden coins of Marley’s eyes shine bright then and a wretched mixture of a scoff & laugh exit his frozen lips. “Very well, Ebenezer.”

He rises from the chair, carelessly sweeping an arm to the side and battering the piece of furniture away. Prudence retreats, planting herself firmly behind her master. The winds within the room pick up, the chill of the air turns to bitter ice, and the world dims to near darkness. There is a momentary flash of blue flame, all consuming, and boxes of chains drop from thin air. They snap forward, flashing so quickly toward Ebenezer that he had no other option to let out a screech—

“No!” Ebenezer awakens in a flash, head pounding unnaturally. He is wrapped in the sheets of his own bed, but he cannot recall ever dragging himself into his quarters.

There is a glass of water on his nightstand of which he takes a happy drink. The little light that streams in from the gaps of the curtains bounces along the wood of the bedside table, it lights the face of the small clock that which sits on it. The roundness of the moon peeks through and he wonders immediately at the time. A glance at the aforementioned machine shocks him and brings forth a fiery, recent memory.

I have pulled a few chains… Marley’s dark tone mocks him, a vivid echo inside Scrooge’s head.

And arranged for three visitors to call upon you before morning… The clock reads 12:57am, a chill thrills his spine.

The first shall come when the bell tolls One… Yes, he sees the vision of his visitor so clearly that he begins to sweat.

The second will come calling when the bell tolls Two. The third shall call, well, at Three… Another glance at the time brings Scrooge to fling aside his bedclothes and pace the room. 12:59am. In his mind, he tries to assure himself that it had all been a dream. From the ghosts of past men forgotten, to the freezing grasp of the chains against his flesh, to the terror of truths laid out so plainly before him. But, in his heart, he feels a strange stirring. His gut flips and churns so wildly that he recognizes the truth. Marley’s ghost had been real.

The chiming cascade of the tower bells draw him from his thoughts and he whips his head to gaze at the fireplace. Perhaps the next visitor would come to him as Marley had. He waits, listening. The bells sing beautifully, hauntingly, before the hour bell drums a single note. Yet, nothing happens. Not a single speckle of dying ember flutters forward, no flecking of dust sweeps across the floor by some unseen wind. An overwhelming sense of relief floods the miser.

“Just a dream.” He mutters aloud, a happy string of words if ever he had uttered them. He turns back to his bed. “Just a dream.”

‘The first at One.’ There in the corner of his mind Marley’s voice mutters and, the moment Scrooge takes a step toward his bed, the world falls into unnatural stillness. The dust that had been previously disturbed by his movements halts midair. His breath, visible in the cold room, is frozen in a perfect, cloudy puff in front of his face. There is no more time that can be granted for his observations, as the room begins to shake. A deep rumbling can be heard both externally and rattling through his bones. The ceiling above cracks and splinters, a fissure forming rapidly and purposefully. It strikes the mirror above the fireplace mantle, cracking it clean through, before cleaving down the brick of the firebox and across the floor. The clean break in the wooden boards extends into root-like splinters, reaching for the man’s feet.

He yelps, tripping backward over his ottoman. Tangled in his upholstery and bedclothes, Ebenezer almost misses the arrival of the first spirit. At first a floating candle, a dripping wax figure begins to form before his eyes. He is rendered speechless, helpless to wait until the ghost has fully formed. A beautiful woman, if she was indeed that, is created from the wax. Her dress and hair holds up, despite all expectations. She seems to be talking to herself, adjusting her wax clothing and admiring her form in the mirror. He can only stare, even when she turns to face him.

“—llo?” Suddenly, their eyes lock and her face is inches from his.

“Hello?” He stutters through the word. He knows his face is the perfect picture of confusion and fear. An unbecoming blend.

“Oh! There you are! Back with us… Scrooge? It’s Scrooge, isn’t it?” She speaks in such a rush that it is hard to keep up. The man in question can only offer a mute, small nod. “Yes! That’s it, that’s the one! Oh, my! What a funny name, honey!”

There’s no time for him to have a moment of indignation because the brief pause in her speech had only been to take in air. Did she even need it? “Are you comfortable down there, Scrooge? It doesn’t look very comfortable!”

“Um, well—”

“Oh! Never mind that, up you get!” The wax woman pulls him to his feet.

He pulls away, “Who— What. Who? What are you?”

“Ah, who am I?” She smiles, clapping her hands together proudly. “I can be anyone you have ever known! Even you.”

Her form changes, cycling through various people in the man’s life. Several of them are depicted in unhappy tones by the yellow wax, especially the seamstress, before he is eventually mimicked. It goes on for several moments and Ebenezer does not know whether to be appalled or impressed by the menagerie of forms stored within the wax like living memories, echos of the real world around him. It is beautiful and chilling all the same. He cannot understand the science behind it and almost returns to bed, far too exhausted for this tomfoolery. But, alas, he is drawn in.

“Christmas Past?” He dares to ask.

“Yes,” She says gently. “That is I. You were not told of my coming? Or, perhaps, the most important details were omitted?”

“I was given… some guidance.” He rubs the back of his neck and relishes the feeling of the silk nightcap against his hand.

“You have nothing to fear from me. Afterall, your welfare is my business!”

Her statement sparks something wicked within him. Scrooge snaps at her unapologetically. “I should think not! Ghost, spirit, phantom— no matter the kind of visage you are! To be disturbed at this hour is hardly conducive to my welfare!”

Christmas Past appears affronted and she looks at him as though seeing him for the first time. There is judgement in her gaze when she says, “Your… redemption, then.”

/////

You bring a small tub into the light of the fire, empty save for a washcloth and a bar of soap. The pathetic embers swirling at the lip of the hearth are quickly stamped out and the coals replaced. There is a kettle hanging over the open flame and the soft noise of boiling water fills the cramped space. You are fortunate enough to have your own room in the poorhouse, separated from countless families, with two beds and a wood stove set apart from the living space. It is easy to maintain and has two windows which can be opened at any time of day with relative safety.

Though it is not much, it is enough. Once you paid your debts, you would buy a room in a nice boarding house on a good street, with amicable neighbours, and plenty of windows to let out the stale air. Kitty would benefit from occasional lessons at the church and your focus could return to the shop. Yes, it would be harder to hide Kitty from the world but you would not impose this life upon her for all her years.

With a strained sigh, you bring yourself from your reverie and grab at the blackened kettle above the fire. The mit around your hand is barely enough to keep your skin from burning, so you make quick work of drawing up a bath. The water swirls, still boiling, against the sides and you move on to ready the warming pan as you wait for it to cool. Kitty sits in the corner, farthest from the open windows, watching you.

“Mother,” Her voice is so delicate, soft. Her demeanour is far too demure for your liking, but you answer her call with clarity and calm.

“Yes, Kitty?” You push the metal pan into the coals at the very edge of the fire, those just beginning to die out, and turn to face her.

“May I close the windows? The winter chill–” She shivers in her thin dayshirt and your heart breaks a little.

“Yes, come, help me close them. I think we have left them open too long, let us not freeze or let in more snow.” You move to one side of the room and she goes to the other. Soon enough, the windows are closed and the bath has settled to an acceptable temperature. “Take your bath first, Catherine, I’d rather the warmth of the water go to you.”

Eventually, you are both ready to sleep. Catherine clambers into her bed, warmed by the bedpan you had placed underneath, and pulls the ratty bedclothes to her chin. It is easy to tuck her in, brush back her hair, and tell her a small story. It is hard to leave her, take the hot pan from under her bed, and listen to the howling of the wind as it rattles against the glass panes. It is agonising to lie awake, listening to the small child’s breath and thinking about the world of hurt Mr. Ebenezer Scrooge had caused you with but a few words.

There is nothing that could properly describe the way your heart had been torn apart and the pieces set ablaze. The sadder yet was the fact that it had not even been his fault. He had been entirely cordial until the payments had begun to slip, until your debt grew and his frustrations mounted. You had revealed to him the truth of your status, your skeletons pulled from the closet of your own volition. The tears barely registered, nor did the taste of salt against your lips. Your family had cast you out, had struck a bargain, and all you had done was prove them right.Completely oblivious to the torment of your aforementioned debtor and the tightening strings of fate, you drift into a world plagued with nightmares. Nightmares that end with only one thing: giving up the one spark of joy in your world– Catherine. Your daughter.

#i'm sorry #this is so late #ebenezer scrooge x reader #ebenezer scrooge #scrooge: a christmas carol #netflix scrooge #scrooge #victorian attitudes #period typical classism #period typical attitude #period typical sexism #x reader #archive of our own #a christmas carol #jacob marley #ghost of christmas past

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evita-shelby · 2 years

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The Spanish Lady

Cw: a lot of racism, colorism, SWERF shit,classim,liberal use of anti Mexican slurs and antisemitism that are in character for a white right-wing law enforcement person in the 1920s

Gif by @so-thisis-love

Five times someone asked Grace to sing the Spanish Lady and refused and one time she couldn’t refuse.

Sorry Grace fans, but a person who is in an exrremely right wing family and who really believes that England has a right to oppress and control other people is highly unlikely to be a good person at their core.

Here in this one shot, I explore Ulster Volunteer, Tory Grace Burgess pour all her nastyness at a woman of color

Takes place in the Nothing More Difficult than Love verse

---

“Do you know the song Spanish Lady,” Miss Smith asked as they waited for Harry to retrieve the rum bottle.

She was a new arrival, granddaughter to an old woman named Ethel who’s son married and settled in Mexico. Now she was here as a refugee after the civil war killed her family.

Eva Smith was treated like royalty, as if the Duchess of York had come to Small Heath.

Grace didn’t understand why they were falling over their feet to see her until she met her.

“I do.” Grace said with a shy smile.

Grace had expected her to look like those photographs and films where the Mexicans are dirty hat wearing Indians with the big rifles. She had expected a timid savage wearing threadbare old-fashioned clothes.

Eva Smith didn’t look at all like those people. Must be her Irish and English blood, the Irish Tory barmaid mused.

She was stunning even if a little dark and freckled, she looked like an Italian woman come to think of it. Her figure wasn’t fashionable, hourglass figures were a thing of the past and Grace’s slim figure were all the rage now, but Eva Smith was still seen as beautiful as Venus here.

There was just something about her that turned everyone’s heads just to see her.

“Do you sing, Miss Smith?” the blonde asked as she gave her the bottle of rum Harry handed to her.

----

“Sing the Spanish Lady, might make him less likely to stop you.” Lizzie Stark, the local whore, had suggested one Saturday as if they were friends. Grace was a well-bred woman of class and substance she’d never stoop so low as to befriend anything that came from Small Heath.

Tommy Shelby was the only exception, Ada and Lizzie and even Eva Smith were just pawns she used to get to him.

Like Grace Helen Burgess Curran would ever consort with whores, Communist Jewish women and an escaped Mexican criminal.

Eva Smith was to be Thomas’ future wife, a match arranged by their kin to save Eva from paying for her crimes.

What a man like him would want with a lowly bean eater who suffers from hallucinations is beyond her.

But the marriage would be short lived, he was destined to hang and so was she. Perhaps Grace can get him to see the light and change his ways, she could show him a better life away from this pigsty and show him how happy he will be with a better woman.

Not the mutt to which he was engaged.

Eva Smith helped kill Englishmen, Americans and even got a good Irishman drunk so he would bomb the wrong city.

She was as evil as the beasts that killed your parents. Don’t let her appearance fool you.

That was what Inspector Campbell had said at their last meeting.

A criminal for a criminal, a match made in hell.

“He will think I am trying to kiss up to him.” The blonde shook her head.

“Aren’t you?” the whore gave her a knowing look before John Shelby came to take her somewhere.

---

“Why don’t you join them?” Polly Gray loathes her. Grace has seen it since they met and delights in making her suffer.

Some drunks at the pub are joined by a Traveller calling himself Johnny Dogs as they serenade the shy witch who’s come with Ada and Polly for a drink.

The witch never drinks more than one glass, when she is with Tommy, she will steal a sip or two from his glass or mug like the backwards heathen she is. He likes that sort of thing, she’s noticed.

She must’ve bewitched him with her black Indian magic.

How else could a man like Thomas Shelby be interested in her?

Grace had learned about this woman and her past, born in Rome, educated by the best teachers her family could buy and treated like a deity by her own family.

She was involved in the Benton Affair. She had been Pancho Villa’s faithful interpreter and helped him steal away the Englishman’s wealth and then killed him.

She killed good honest men and stole from their widows, she broke criminals out of prison, and then there were the things against her character.

There were talks about her whoring herself out to the President’s son, to some bandit turned soldier who stole a horse for her, about her getting black out drunk at parties and worse, drugging herself and speaking in tongues.

She was a fake, she was not powerful, she was just an insane woman who’s uncle had to buy her a husband.

A husband Grace deserves.

----

“Hey, Grace, do you know the Spanish Lady?”

It had become a habit to ask that song whenever Eva was coming by. The closer they got to the wedding the more she came here with Thomas.

She hated that. Grace couldn’t make Thomas fall in love with her because the witch was there, and he pretended Grace was no one important if she was around.

But he’ll forget the brown skin bitch when they come back from Cheltenham, Grace could make any man fall in love with her.

Especially when she wanted that man.

And she wants Thomas Shelby more than she ever wanted anyone else before.

“Not very well, Harry. I might offend our own Spanish Lady.” She lies and sings the song she heard Tommy liked.

Black velvet band, that one was her favorite.

That one told Tommy how much she wanted him, how much better she was for him than the woman he’s marrying in a few weeks.

She wears a black velvet band in her hair today; it doesn’t look well in her dark brown hair. But he still holds her gloved hand like she’s the only woman he wants, and she acts like she’s their equal.

She is not as beautiful, she is a nobody, she will die and Tommy will be mine, the barmaid tells herself as she’s forced to pretend it doesn’t fill her with rage to see them act like they want each other.

----

“My grandfather, may he rest in peace, used to sing the Spanish Lady to my grandmother. You see our abuela was raised in Spain because of all the wars during her childhood.” The Spaniard, Diego Velasquez, said as he waited for his cousin.

How such a great man could be related to Eva Smith was beyond her.

Grace talks to him, flirting and working him for information, but he doesn’t budge.

“I know the words, perhaps I could sing it for you if you ask nicely.” She batts her eyes at him and her hand brushed against his on the counter.

He looks at her like she is dirt under his fingernails.

“You have my thanks, but another time, senorita.” He said flirting back, but not bothering to hide his irritation when he turns to look at his cousin coming inside the pub.

---

She shouldn’t have come here.

Eva had warned her, Ada had too, but she needed to be here so she could set the trap for Freddie Thorne.

They are happy, Tommy doesn’t spare her a longing look and Grace feels crushed as she sees him be happy with his choice.

I want you. He had kissed her, she had tried to get him to do more than just kiss, but he had pushed her away.

She’ll know, he had shaken his head when she led his calloused and long fingers to the buttons of her blouse.

I don’t care, she had said as she’d tried to seduce him.

“Play the Spanish Lady, Johnny. She loves that song.” Tommy told the travellers who’d taken up a fiddle and some other instruments as he went to retrieve his bitch of a wife.

“Can you join us, Miss Burgess? Arthur said you sing like songbird.” One of the Lees asks her, and she can’t refuse, not if she wants to lose Thomas forever.

Later that night, Grace vows she’ll never sing that song again.

#eva smith shelby #tommy shelby x oc #thomas shelby x oc #thomas shelby fanfic #peaky blinders fanfiction #thomas shelby #thomas shelby imagine #oc fanfiction #tommy shelby fanfic #peaky blinder fanfic #tw:racism #tw: period typical attitudes #tw: antisemitism #anti-grace-burgess #anti-grace-shelby

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frmulcahy · 3 months

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Historical fiction please calm down with the slurs challenge

#like c h r i s t you can convey prejudice without it #before people bitch at me like yeah obviously shit was BAD back then #but sometimes it feels like these authors just want an excuse to use the n word #and idk man believe it or not but not everyone was racist homophobic misogynistic etc etc in previous centuries #i think protagonists can still have a ton of flaws and period typical attitudes whilst still being progressive for their time #and like i get villains and antagonists being horrific but if a character were supposed to have compassion for is being just as bad… well #idk i feel like I’m not articulating my words enough but

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princessithaca · 10 months

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im hoping that the movies greta gerwig is apparently attached to direct are previously unadapted ones cause it's not been long enough since the original 00s lww-dt run for it to have really faded from the public consciousness and it would feel very much like retreading old ground. saying that, she's an insightful and compassionate director with a good eye for set design and creating a very immersive world, so i think if the rumours pan out they'd be good films!

#im a little nervy about how she might handle the problem of susan if she does the last battle but i doubt that one's in the running #it involves too many characters + a lot of parallel narratives. it would also require a new set of pevensies which as i said #i don't think they're gonna go in for. or they shouldn't if they're smart #i would assume it's the magicians nephew and the horse and his boy. or possibly the silver chair #(will poulter you were an excellent eustace but seeing as it was only the one film they could easily recast that role)#idk. far too early days yet to know anything im just Musing #and when i say nervy about susan i just mean in that it's important to me that susan's narrative is about losing your faith #not about lewis being sexist. which i flat out don't and never have thought was an accurate reading of that plotline #there's elements of period typical attitudes towards a certain sort of femininity in the text there sure. but susan is the lewis insert #in that book. she's him that's his story. reading it as susan losing out on heaven purely bc she discovered sex is the least intersting tak #iona.txt #tcon #tag talk

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clare-with-no-i · 2 years

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theogony outtake 2: watching at the komos

#did I not say he was a pining loser in these #like did I not say #my stuff #theogony #this one has some of his period typical gender role attitude sowwy :/#it is what it is yknow #he can't be a perfect contemporary feminist but don't worry this was early #there is still yet time for me to make lily recite The Second Sex from memory

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musewrangler · 1 year

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“Leia’s home,” she stated, and Piett set down his walking stick which he’d gripped in preparation to flee to the bedroom in order not to be seen.

The girl herself burst in minutes later, cheeks rosy from her ride and looking very pleased with herself.

“Aunt Sola,” she greeted, kissing the other woman’s cheek and then dumping her parcels on the dented wooden table and tugging her boots off near the back door.

“What are you so pleased about?” Sola asked, taking the vegetables off of the heat.

“I committed theft successfully,” Leia said cheerfully, shrugging out of her coat and whipping off her hat to hang both on the the hook.

Piett raised an eyebrow at her from the sitting room. “Most civilized sorts don’t consider this something to be proud of,” he said with a smile.

She snatched up the biggest bundle and skipped into the room, to drop it on the sofa near him.

“Aha, my dear Colonel, but we are hardly living in a civilized time are we?” she said unrepentantly and Piett looked down at his potato so she wouldn’t see how deeply pleased he was at the friendly title.

#star wars #star wars original trilogy #star wars au #Star wars wwii au #wwii au #world war two #firmus piett #admiral piett #leia organa #sola naberrie #myra veers #anakin skywalker #han solo #maximilian veers #general veers #period typical attitude #spies #friendship #family

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leafmutual · 2 years

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Found that list someone made of problematic authors and am fucking floored, the severe lack of critical thinking on display is astounding. You heard it here first folks: Shakespeare, Virginia Woolf, Harper Lee and Sylvia Plath have been canceled for racism. Not one mention of the really low hanging fruit like Lovecraft, Orwell, Nabokov... and the amount of ya authors on the list is like...

#personal post #critical thought have you heard of it!!#going on the record here and now to say that im tired and kind of concerned about the trend of completely cutting yourself off from a thing #bc the content or the creator fucked up in various ways #because its like... humans are messy and will fuck up and do bad shit but that does not preclude them from being able to do good #or make good things #you arent one or the other there is no black and white and trying to sort things into purely right or wrong categories #will both inevitably fail and result in you living a less rich life as you cut yourself off from everything that isnt perfect #also its really funny to me how murder is on the same level as plagiarism on this list. both equally bad clearly #half of this stuff is like authors rn being kind of dicks and the other half is people long dead getting canceled #for time period typical attitudes and writing

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xjulixred45x · 3 months

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I could't contain myself guys sorry--

Bro, do you realize how scary it would be to have Vox as a Yandere?

just imagine it. You could be one of his workers, maybe too good at your job, because not only do you do what Vox tells you without asking questions, but you also know what to say and what not to say to avoid a "tantrum" from him. or rather, when his insecurities attack with force like when Alastor returns.

Vox would probably be a somewhat condescending yandere (as seen with Val) but don't think you can't turn tables easily, if you stroke his ego enough, you can have him around your finger. but that doesn't make it any less dangerous for those around you.

He makes the typical 180 degree turn in attitude when it comes to Other Employees and when it comes to You. Damn, you may be the only one of his employees who gets paid vacations (or even vacations) or even birthday bonuses, things like that. He likes to give you his things or products with the excuse that "they are for testing" even if they have already been released on the market.

Like:

Vox: who the fuck eat My leftovers!?! WHENEVER WHO WAS I'M GOING TO-

Darling: it was me sir.

Vox:--give You the rest and take You out for lunch, You haven't eaten in the whole day AGAIN, didn't ya?

He definitely avoids conflict with you by hypnotizing you, when he starts to feel hostility, fear on your part or that you want to leave, he makes you "out of nowhere" have "ONE MORE TASK" and you can't help but do what he says.

and IT IS NOT just to avoid fights or for you to leave, it is something CONSTANT (once every two days MINIMUM), although Vox is not worried about your brain turning into mush due to its powers, it always keeps nutritious things in your diet and they come out relatively often , as you have to follow him everywhere.

Eventually he becomes more clingy and needy in this case, it's practically not that he's proposing to you or anything, he's just slowly dragging you into a relationship without you realizing it (because you're not lucid enough). Unless you develop a higher level of tolerance to his hypotonic trick, I don't think you'll notice his Red Flags.

I think it would be ESPECIALLY BAD if Darling is also a Sinner, because then they wouldn't even be able to get out of the pride ring to run away from Vox. leaving you with many fewer options and having to avoid all of Vox's technology, which you could only achieve by 1- going to the Cannibal Legion or 2- going to the Hazbin Hotel.

Running away is EXTREMELY DIFFICULT, not only because of his hypnotic trick, but because he literally has EYES EVERYWHERE, on every screen in hell. If you somehow manage to get away with it and run away, Vox would be SO ANGRY and looking for you all over hell with their screens.

Although definitely if you were gone more than a day, he would be more distraught than angry and would begin to despair. Even Val and Velvet would give him a hand because of how bad it would be.

Just imagine, thinking that you finally lost sight of Vox's search drones, without realizing that you stand in front of some store and VOX ITSELF appears on the screens :)

If you made the stupid decision to go to the Hazbin Hotel, Vox would be distraught and would even think that Alastor was somehow holding you hostage, obviously! Why would you go there if you knew his biggest enemy was there? Alastor must be using you as a bargaining chip! How dare he!?

(in this case, fortunately, the punishment is much less severe, but he would definitely monitor you for the rest of your life)

When he eventually gets you back (after a few days or even WEEKS of anguish) expect, first of all, to be in a mortal embrace that lasts AT LEAST 2 days and then receive your "punishment" which would be to be under hypnosis for AT LEAST 1 YEAR to be sure that this NEVER HAPPENS AGAIN.

Although calm down! He gives your mind breaks periodically because 1- he doesn't know if that would ultimate mess with your head and 2- it's nice to hear YOU talk instead of the robotic version.

When that year FINALLY ends, you will be a much more obedient, more terrified, sweeter version of You, according to Vox, like a frightened Deer. It was a long and hard process, but the good thing is that you don't have to do anything anymore! absolutely! Just do what he tells you and everything will be fine.

Shares, reglogs and comments are very welcome!

Not one of the Best yanderes to have, but Def not the worst

#headcanons #drabbles #fem reader #neutral reader #male reader #hazbin hotel x reader #hotel hazbin #hazbin hotel #hazbin hotel vox #hazbin vox #vox x reader #yandere vox #yandere hazbin hotel #hazbin alastor

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terrence-silver · 1 year

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Could you please do Terry telling John about Beloved or introducing them to each other?

Thank you 😊

---

John Kreese wasn't exactly always all for the kind of people Terry tended to lead around on his arm; hook, line and sinker. He let that be known at times, in a paternalistic way someone slightly older lets these things be known --- and Terry was rich enough to where someone needed to be sincere with him once in a while --- someone who wasn't a paid suck up --- for his own good.

Wasn't John's manner to pussyfoot around.

Terry knew that and John knew that he knew.

Sure, call him old fashioned, but he believed in something called real, proper, goddamn love; people meet, go steady, like each for all the right reasons and settle down honestly, as they should. An ideal as universal and American as sliced pie and the pickled fence it went hand in hand with. He fought for that dream. Bled for it. Before Vietnam, John could even see himself coming home to such a life if what happened to Betsy didn't happen. She died. That was it. John didn't run from the hard facts and hard knocks of life, instead, he faced them head on like a man should. Much like Terry had to face that pretentious, fortune hunting high-end paid escorts, crooks after his money and influence and perfumed whores of any persuasion no matter how slick about their trade weren't necessarily the right kind to bring home. Fuck, yes. Have fun and enjoy life with, yes. Blow off some steam with and have orgies with on a private island or whatever Terry got up to these days, sure. But not to bring home. Least of all, expect John to take it all seriously. It wasn't the whoring itself as much as it was the lack of honest intentions. Hell, John tended to feel like something of a mother hen sometimes, teaching a grown man who and what to date when Terry was more than capable of taking care of himself and was slick as the slickest among them himself. He worried that the Cobra would encounter a greater predator in the gardens of life than itself and that struck him as ludicrous at this point when Terry was literally gracing the cover of Forbes. He supposed he worried the way an older brother or a father does. The way a Captain does. He supposed he sometimes still tended to see Twig in Terry, flustered about the concept of second base.

He saw Twig, in shimmers, as he spoke, through the occasional sheen in Terry's eyes.

He hasn't seen Twig in Terry's eyes for years.

-"So, how do you know?"- John amused himself, grimly, mustering a sincere half-grin, questioning Terry as they stood on the balcony of his mansion overlooking the vista. He was listening for nearly months about this special someone to the point that he caught that Terry actually wanted to be questioned more on the subject and for John to show an interest and he took as a cue to do so. Deduced that much. The subject of you was like a mouse Terry dropped at his feet, waiting for his praise.

-"I know."-

Terry giggled, elongating his 'know' into suggestive lengths as was his habit, cheeks puffed under the weight of his wide, crooked smile, his pores practically lighting up with mirth. His twinkling beam taking up the space of his entire face until his eyes and overall features were barely visible and hooded under his brow. Man was quite literally all smiles. Well now. Usually, Terry would go into salacious details, but now, he appeared more like a flustered boy, talking about a school crush.

-"That good, huh?"-

John has to quip, elbowing Terry into the side. The sex must've been out of this world...with this near-mythical being in question. -"You surprise me, Lieutenant."- He adds, entertained. -"Thought there wasn't anything under the sun that can get you whipped that much."- Usually, Terry's desires were extremely physical and in a sense, he couldn't help but be proud of the man Terry grew up to be since the army. Most eligible playboy in California. Who would've thought? -"Thought you tried it all."- He has to continue, now more serious, feeling Terry might conflate lust with love at times, making little to no differences between the two. Think just because someone can do outstanding endeavors in bed, it must mean that someone is innately special. John wasn't a prude --- far from. He had his share of life. He just hated to see a friend making a goddamn fool out of himself over some tail.

-"You know, we talked after it, man. Really talked."- Terry tries, fiery.

John's interest is renewed. Talked?

-"The way you and I talk."-

Terry explains fondly, vehemently, fingers reaching and pointing towards his own torso and then John's for emphasis, and John's taken back to a time of campfire chats deep into the night during long patrols in the bush. Comforting Terry when he was sick during marches and rambling on for hours to keep him awake and from succumbing to his wounds. Sharing dreams and hopes. Talking to pass time. Alleviate fear. Times of trouble, turns out, serve as the best moments a man can have the talk of his life and somehow, forging a brotherhood baptized in blood and John understands then. -"Never thought I'd be able to do that with anyone ever again."- Terry finishes off, Twig loud and clear on his face. John Kreese figures then, nodding, that you're not someone he'd mind meeting.

#john kreese #terry silver #kk3 #cobra kai #80's terry silver #friendship #terry silver x reader #terry silver x beloved #twig mentioned #tw; period typical attitudes

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elianas-cozycorner · 1 year

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𝓞𝓷 𝓟𝓲𝓷𝓼 𝓪𝓷𝓭 𝓝𝓮𝓮𝓭𝓵𝓮𝓼 | 𝓢𝓬𝓻𝓸𝓸𝓰𝓮 (2022)

𝘊𝘩𝘢𝘱𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘖𝘯𝘦 | 𝘊𝘰𝘭𝘭𝘦𝘤𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘋𝘦𝘣𝘵𝘴

Dedicated to @the-house-of-auditore-frye

Summary: In a world where single mothers and working, low-class women are shunned, how can an unwed seamstress survive? With piling debts and the Christmas season underway, there's nothing worse than adding hopeless, one-sided love to your troubles. Pining after your lender and local miser, Ebenezer Scrooge, can only lead you to ruin. Right?

Author's Note: Hello, all!

This little project came to be because of Frye's post requesting a Scrooge fiction. Please be aware that, as much as I absolutely adore this man and the film, this is my first time writing for Ebenezer. Because I wanted this to be as enjoyable as possible, I spent about a week researching the Victorian Era (everything from coinage to etiquette). That being said, I will try my best to make this historically accurate while also being canon compliant. There is also a jump from past tense to present tense in this chapter, denoted by a cut.

Because the story's plot is mostly fleshed out, I will be trying my best to give you all weekly updates. I have kept or changed a manner of things I saw fit to, but largely kept to the user's storyline. I did give the reader a last name to save my sanity (I also do not use Y/N)! If anyone is interested in the parts of Victorian culture I reference, I'll start leaving notes at the end of chapters.

Word Count: 1558

Ao3 - Mature Rating

Warnings: Period Typical Attitudes/Sexism, Victorian Era

The smell of pine and freshly baked goods swirled in the otherwise polluted London air. A soft breeze tussled ladies’ bonnets and ruffled the cravats of refined gentlemen, the perfect reprise from the muggy smog. With the workhouses and factories tucked just beyond view, prevented from covering the shopping district in coal dust, the street was filled with last minute shoppers and happy couples. Christmas was naught but a short eve away and the holiday cheer was perfectly contagious. Women, accompanied by their mothers and sisters, walked along the newly cleaned sidewalks. Occasionally they would break out in conversation among themselves, whether over a charming gentleman across the way or a new shipment of ribbons advertised on a storefront. Poormen and servants wandered about the stalls in the street, collecting food from the grocers or mead from the brewers. The steady clopping of hooves and the calls of pauper boys selling their papers only added to the busy atmosphere of the shopping district.

The noise was close to overwhelming for some. One such gentleman walked alone, steel tipped cane clicking loudly against the cobblestone. Occasionally the man would pull his top hat further down his temple, adjust his upturned collar closer to his face, or grumble under his breath at the ineffectiveness of his overcoat. If one were to watch him long enough, they might see him pull a watch from his pocket and check its time against the clock tower’s. He avoided every sign of cheer, failed to acknowledge any gentlewoman he crossed paths with, and refused to return the Christmas wishes thrown his way.

So bothered by the joyous atmosphere was he that, at his next convenience, he ducked into an alley. There he took a moment to sigh deeply and adjust his evening wear. The permanent scowl across his face was not dissuaded by the huff of breath against his knee.

The man looked down, “Prudence.”

The large, wrinkly mastiff at his feet looked up at the mention of her name. She focused on him, waiting for the graying man to continue. But she did not receive further acknowledgement. Instead, her human took up a brisk pace and exited the alleyway. Set on reaching his destination, the man did not expect to run into a pair of caroling urchins. Nor his nephew shortly after.

“Uncle Ebenezer, is that you?”

“And to think,” The man growled under his breath, ducking behind a vendor’s stall. “That I should be granted any semblance of peace on such a wretched eve.”

There was a moment of silence and the grouch did not see his nephew’s figure again. “That was close–”

“Uncle! It is you, I knew it!” The cheerful gentleman appeared before him as if teleported by God himself.

Ebenezer Scrooge, cold hearted and lacking patience toward his relative as he was, couldn’t help the obvious annoyance that overtook his features. “Harry–”

“Merry Christmas!” Harry smiled broadly and extended his hat forward in greeting. It was a gesture that Scrooge did not return, favoring instead a scowl and exaggerated eye roll.

Unfazed by his uncle’s uncouth manner and blatant disrespect, Harry continued on to greet the giant hound at Scrooge’s hip. They engaged in a rather splendid moment, Prudence preening under the kind affections Harry offered. The men exchanged a few short words until the clocktower sounded out, catching their attention. Scrooge smiled gleefully then, a truly cruel and unashamed sort of glee.

“Out of time, Jenkins,” He turned to face his nephew. “As unpleasant as this encounter has been, Harry, I must bid my goodbyes. I have much to do before the clock strikes the sixth hour of the eve, many debts to collect. Be ye well, God bless you.” He extended his hat, bowing slightly at the waist.

“Oh, but Uncle–” Harry was cut off as the gray haired man turned down the way. He shared a puzzled look with their canine companion before following suit.

“Uncle, wait! Perhaps, if it will not inconvenience you, I may join you for your final collection.” The request is polite enough, if not a bit hesitant.

“I suppose you are about to tell me that it would be mutually beneficial to engage in such an excursion together,” Ebenezer Scrooge sighed deeply. “However noble the intention, my good boy, I am about on business –”

“As am I,” The response came from his left. “I have several gifts to acquire before the shops close for Christmas Eve, and I set out with the intent to meet you in the office. Your office.”

“Yes, you said as much.” The ebony cane tapped rhythmically against the cobbles underfoot. “If it is your will, I will not dissuade you. However, I will dismiss you immediately should you encroach upon my time.”

“Of course, as to be expected.”

“Expected?” A large, well maintained eyebrow shot up.

Harry floundered for a moment, unsure if he had crossed a line or poked a nerve. “I only meant that this excursion is as much about business for me as it is for you. ”

“Hmm. Christmas gifts. A pointless waste of coin and effort. Say,” Scrooge turned to face the other man then, halting in the middle of the walkway. “Should not your servant fetch these things?”

“They are preparing Christmas Eve Dinner! It is only right that they spend some time with their families come the morn, so the house will be hosting–”

-̷-̷-̷-̷-̷-̷-̷-̷-̷-̷-̷-̷-̷-̷-̷

With his cane tucked under his arm, Ebenezer Scrooge adjusts his gloves in the doorway of Jenkin’s Toy Shoppe. His newly edited ledger sits heavily in his vest pocket: 50 pound – Jenkins, due Boxing Day. It gives him great pleasure to know that he will collect double the expected sum of Jenkin’s dues. So much so, the man does not register the fact that he is leaving Prudence in the care of his nephew as he exits the store. He is already tired of the social scenes and obligations placed upon him by society; what with enduring a continued human presence and being accosted by some unlicensed charity band.

‘The nerve,’ He thinks, once again checking his watch. ‘ Twenty past the hour already?"

He lets the cane drop back into his hand, using it for stability in the ice and snow. He has one last destination before he can retreat to his office: Louwermon’s Tailor and Dress Shoppe. A quaint little place on an industrial corner, hidden amongst the poorest rabble and unkempt developments. Originally owned by a stately old man, the clothing store often employed the lowest-class women and occasional middle-class seamstress. Now, after his passing and with shirts going for 7 pence a dozen, only one woman was left. The store and all of Louwermon’s earthly debts left unto her.

Scrooge cringes slightly at the thought, bringing his gloved hand to cover a breast pocket. Louwermon hadn’t even been her father. How a woman with so little prospects and devastatingly meager income had been allowed, by the courts no less , to keep the shop was beyond him. He knew she worked day and night, nearly twelve hours each day, to pay her late employer’s debts. That much he approved of, her timeliness and portly manner. But lately, come the winter season, such timeliness had given away to shortchanged dues and even missed payments. That, to the old miser, was the most unacceptable thing about her.

Lost in thought as he is, Scrooge is surprised when muscle memory encourages him to grip a familiar knob. The door handle, when he looks up to confirm, does indeed belong to the storefront of Louwermon’s Tailor and Dress Shoppe . With his right hand occupied with the door, he reaches for his ledger with the left. He wants nothing more than to make this trip quick.

When he finally steps across the threshold, a warm gust of air and the chime of a bell greet him. A fire roars in a hearth to the back of the front room, keeping it warm for customers. In the furthermost right corner there is an area sectioned off for fittings, more an alcove than a proper room. Several dresses sit on the till counter and a rack of men’s shirts line the most immediate wall. A couple mannequins to his left host unfinished coats and suits, while the store windows are arranged to display seasonal accessories. However, despite all the garments, he does not spot the store’s owner.

He stands alone for several long moments, watching the time tick by on his pocket watch. He strains his ears to hear the clicking of the hands, taps his cane a couple times, and tries to tame his impatience by looking around the room. He waits, and waits. Eventually, Scrooge’s patience runs out. Indignant at being left to loiter, he clears his throat as loudly as the dry air will allow.

“I’ll say, Ms. Blackwood, this is certainly no way to run an establishment!”

From some room in the very back, Scrooge hears a clattering sound and the rushing of footsteps. The creaking of the door is accompanied by a small murmur of pain. Well worn hands brace themselves against the doorframe and gentle eyes meet stern ones. In her eyes there is a hint of fear and he knows then that she will ask for another extension.

‘Will I give it?’ He wonders.

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valeskafics · 5 months

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"My Strong Girl" - Dark Prince Regent!Aemond Targaryen x Niece!Reader

a/n: in honor of WHATEVER THE FUCK YESTERDAY WAS AHHHHHH prince regent aemond is coming (and so am i hehe). this is also a late bday present for my babe @hoosbandewan ilysm boo!!! 🩷

Summary: The Prince Regent consummates his union in a rather... Unorthodox way.

TW: HEAVY DUBCON, canon typical incest, profanity, innuendo, she/her pronouns, afab reader, dark/yandere behavior, PUBLIC sex, period typical misogynistic attitudes, asshole aemond, fingering, overstim, loss of virginity, p in v sex, breeding kink, degradation, humiliation kink, dumbification, filth, i'm going to hell

Word Count: 2,810 words

Rating: 18+, MDNI

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the House of The Dragon/Fire & Blood characters nor do I claim to own them. I do not own any of the images used nor do I claim to own them.

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The silence is deafening as you are led from your cell in the dungeons to the throne room. Your mouth tastes of ash and blood as you hold your head high, refusing to let Ser Criston treat you as anything less than you are.

The eldest surviving child of Rhaenyra Targaryen, the rightful Queen of the Seven Kingdoms.

You know it is not your Uncle Aegon who sits the throne now. He is not who you are being led to. No, it is his younger brother, Aemond, the Prince Regent. You see him, sitting there on the Iron Throne. Your mother’s throne. The Conqueror’s crown rests upon his brow, his lips curled up into a smug smile, the greatsword Blackfyre resting at his side. You maintain eye contact with him, refusing to shrink away, something which seems to amuse him. With the way he stares at you, cold and calculating as ever, you feel naked under his gaze. Like your body and soul are bared to him. Never have you felt so uncomfortably vulnerable.

Ser Criston shoves you to the ground in front of the throne, demanding, “Kneel before your Prince Regent.”

You look up at Aemond, seeing that he’s still staring down at you, and rather than kneeling, you spit at his feet, lips pulled back as you snarl, “I will not.”

Aemond arches a brow at your display of defiance while Ser Criston glares at you, “I will not repeat myself, bastard. Bow to your Prince Regent.”

The prince has to catch his breath when you look up at him, that fire in your eyes which he has loved since he was a boy, your voice as sharp as Blackfyre’s edge, “No matter how the wind howls, the mountain will not bow to it. I will not yield to this usurper. This murderer.”

Criston unsheathes his sword, raising it above his head as he declares, “Then you will kneel in pieces.”

Aemond raises his hand, giving Criston a stern look, stopping the knight in his tracks. He descends down the steps, staring down the bridge of his nose at you before bringing Blackfyre to your chin, forcing you to look up at him.

“A fine blade, is it not?” You remain silent, glowering at him in a way that has his breeches uncomfortably tight. “Would you care to test your mettle against steel?”

“I came here to avenge my brothers,” you retort, “To watch your blood spill upon these floors and to retake the crown for my mother, you treacherous snake.”

He purses his lips, clicking his tongue in a show of mock chastisement before replying, “Such harsh words from such soft, pretty lips. We’ll need to change that if you are to be the bride of the Prince Regent.”

The word makes you feel as though your heart has stopped beating entirely.

Bride…?

Before you can say another word, you are dragged away by Ser Criston once again, delivered into the hands of two chambermaids. He instructs them to get you ready, that the dress will be waiting when they are done bathing you. Your eyes are wild as you look around, realizing what is happening. You kick against your captors, screaming wildly, looking at the knights that were once loyal to your mother, your grandsire before her, as they stand by and do nothing.

As you are carried off to be married to the man you hate most in the world.

The Royal Sept feels every bit like a tomb, each step you take toward Aemond feeling like a step closer toward your doom. And he just stands there, with that infuriating smirk on his face, knowing that he has won. It is your mother’s former childhood companion, your grandmother of sorts, who walks you toward your husband to be.

You whisper to her under your breath, “For a woman of the Faith, you seem content to allow your traitorous sons to do as they please, breaking all bonds of family and loyalty. You sanctimonious, hypocritical-”

“You had best be quiet. As a good wife is,” Alicent cuts you off sharply with a warning look, “This is not your mother’s keep anymore. You would do well to remember that.”

Your voice is dark as you glare at her and respond, “This will always be my mother’s keep, you traitor.”

The septon says his words, extolling the value of love. Of duty. Of family. And it takes everything in you not to laugh in the man’s face. Where is love? Certainly nowhere in this sept. Where is duty? Where is family? Your family is scattered to the four winds. And you are here, your hand being tied to that of the man who murdered your beloved little brother. You think of Luke as Aemond puts his cloak around your shoulders, bringing you under his protection.

Kinslayer. The most cursed of all things a man can be.

And you are married to him.

He leans in and presses his lips to yours, the hunger in his kiss intense and almost terrifying. His hand threads in your hair, pulling you close to him as his lips move against yours. You hear whispering around the sept, but no one is brave enough to say anything to stop this madness. To save you from this man.

You’re taken by surprise when you are not led to a feast nor the bedchambers you are likely to share with your newly wedded husband.

Instead, you are led to the throne room, the nobility of Westeros surrounding you. You feel their eyes on you, some pitying, some amused, as Aemond drags you by the elbow up to the throne, pulling you onto his lap. You let out a shocked yelp, doing your best to squirm away from him, but he keeps you in place. You wonder whether he plans to address the highborn folk, why he has brought you here.

But then, it becomes glaringly obvious to you what his plans are as his long fingers move to rest on the nape of your neck. You shiver, your eyes closing as you feel his other hand tugging at the laces of your wedding gown. He cannot be serious.

He cannot truly intend to consummate your union in the eyes of all the nobility, on the throne.

“Your parentage has been a topic of conversation for years. You and your bastard brothers.” Aemond’s breath is hot against your ear, his teeth grazing against your skin as he inhales your scent, “I will not have the same happen to my children. I will breed you in front of the entire realm so they know the whelp that grows in your belly is mine, that it is my seed that quickens in your womb and none other’s.”

Anger brews inside you at his words, your fists clenching as you resist the urge to lift your elbow and strike him in the jaw, if only barely. You hate him, you hate him so much, and you remind yourself of the fact as he tugs your wedding gown down your body, leaving you in only your smallclothes. Your jaw sets and you do your best to ignore the feeling of his fingers tracing your upper arms. Aemond pulls you closer to him and you can feel the evidence of his arousal pressing against your flesh, the thought making you want to retch. One of his hands caresses your throat while the other moves to your thighs. He squeezes your soft flesh, letting out a low hum of pleasure, fingers trailing up toward your cunt, lifting your shift as they move.

You press your lips together, refusing to make a sound as you feel his fingertips grazing against your bare, sensitive core. You hate the way his touch, how feather light and almost ghostlike it is against your skin. You hate the feeling of wetness pooling between your thighs as Aemond teases you, chuckling in your ear as he feels your slick on his fingers.

“For someone who claims to hate me so much, niece, your body betrays you. Your sweet little cunny is practically begging to be fucked by me.”

Aemond’s words make you shiver. And you despise the fact that he’s right. Your body is responding to him in a way that shocks you. Though you want nothing more than to shove him away, to look out at the crowd and plead for someone to help you, all you do is rest your back against his chest, allowing him to spread your legs, his fingers pushing inside your center. You have touched yourself before, but gods, it is so different when it is the touch of another, when it is they who set the pace. Aemond drags his fingers along your walls, your cunt tightening around him, body reacting viscerally to his touch. You can hear the murmurs of the crowd and turn your face away in shame, but you feel his hand move from your throat to tug harshly at your hair, forcing you to face the observers.

“Look at them,” he snarls in your ear as he begins pumping his fingers in and out of you at a pace faster than anything you could do on your own, making you let out a gasp of pleasure, “They are here to see us consummate our union, wife. Let them see you writhe against my fingers, moaning my name like a little whore as I prepare you to take my cock.”

In spite of yourself, your hand moves to rest over his, urging him on, a silent plea for him to move faster as you face the crowd, the slight tug at your scalp only enhancing your desire. Aemond happily complies, feeling the way you squeeze around him when he brushes a certain spot inside of you, focusing his attention on it, listening as you let out a breathy moan of his name, your free hand grasping at his thigh for purchase. His thumb rubs at your pearl, the bundle of nerves devastatingly sensitive to his touch, and he feels you spill yourself against his fingers, your body going lax as you fall back against him.

The Prince Regent has no intention of stopping, however, shocking many of the nobles present as he continues, the wet noises of his fingers sliding in and out of your cunt quietly echoing, along with your little pants of breath, your plea for him to slow down.

“And you call yourself the blood of the dragon,” Aemond mocks, pinching at your sensitive bud, making you cry out, your thighs shaking as he continues, bringing you closer and closer to your second peak, “Where’s my Strong girl? Hm? You can give me another one. I know you can.”

You shake your head, writhing against him just as he predicting as he continues fucking you with his fingers, not a trace of mercy in his touch. His free hand leaves your hair to grope at one of your breasts, sliding your shift down to expose you to his greedy gaze, along with that of the perverted noblemen watching you.

He wants them to see you, the sweet princess once known as the Realm’s Jewel, defiled and debauched by him, the second son who no one thought would amount to anything. Everyone was under the impression that you were to be married to Jacaerys. That is, until the day your family returned to King’s Landing and Princess Rhaenys announced that he was to marry Baela. Aemond saw the way your face fell with despair, you and your twin exchanging looks across the table. Your mother then stated that you were to be sent off to Riverrun, to be wed to Kermit Tully. Aemond knew that he would not allow this to happen. He knew that no matter what, he would have you. The little bastard girl who had haunted his dreams since he was a boy. You showed him kindness that neither his brother nor yours ever did, with your warm smiles and your gentle words.

And now, as far as he is concerned, he is repaying the favor, bringing you to the edge for a third time, listening to you mewl his name like a bitch in heat as you squirm against him.

“Where is that willful girl who was brought to me earlier today?” Aemond chuckles, lifting your hips, moving you back and forth on his thigh, the feeling of the coarse fabric of his breeches against your abused cunt making you let out a choked gasp, “I thought you would never bow to me. But here you are, sweet niece. My wife. Ready to be fucked like a little whore.”

You whimper slightly, and the sound prompts him to turn you around to face him, your back now to the crowd. He pulls his dagger from its sheath and slices open the fabric of your shift, your body now entirely bare before him. To add to the humiliation of it all, Aemond keeps his clothes on, only undoing his breeches to free his cock. Your eyes go wide as you realize what is about to happen. And the worst part is that the aching between your thighs intensifies. You want this. You want to fuck him.

Aemond sees the shame in your eyes and pulls you close, watching your teeth bite into your lower lip as you sink down on his cock. His hands move to squeeze at the flesh of your rear, kneading it between his fingers. Your entire body is taut, growing accustomed to the intrusion, but soon the slight discomfort gives way to pleasure, a fact that does not escape the one-eyed prince’s notice.

“Does my pretty little wife like being split open on her prince’s cock?”

You hate that his words excite you. You hate that the feeling of him thrusting up into you, setting a brutal pace as he holds you in place drives you to the brink of madness with how much you desire him. You close your eyes and try to pretend that you are anywhere but here, but one of his hands moves to hold your jaw, squeezing just enough to get your attention.

“Look at me, niece,” Aemond snarls, his eye trained on you, “Look at me as I fuck you. Look at me as I spill my seed inside you. And worry not, if it does not take tonight, I have every intention of breeding you every night for the rest of our lives.”

Gods, why does that excite you? You reach your peak, with how many times he brought you to it before, this came faster than the others. He has not spent himself yet, so you are surprised when he lifts you off of him, only to turn you around and pull you back onto his cock, forcing you to face your audience as he continues fucking you.

“They are about to see the next king of the realm being conceived,” Aemond whispers in your ear, “It is the most exciting thing that will ever happen in their pathetic lives. What a gift we have given them, my strong girl.”

“Aemond, it’s too much,” you say, your voice cracking slightly, your toes curling as his fingers move to deftly circle your pearl, bringing you closer and closer to the edge once more.

“You can barely even speak, hm?” Aemond coos, “My poor, empty-headed little wife. Head empty, save for how good my cock feels inside you.”

You can feel the metal of his crown against your temple as his hips begin to slow, knowing he is close to spilling himself inside you, that this humiliation will soon end. He pinches at your sensitive nub once more, feeling you spill yourself against him, reaching his own end moments later, breeding you, filling you with his seed just as he promised.

He snaps his fingers and the cloak he put on you during your wedding ceremony is brought forth and placed on your shoulders. He turns you to face him, holding your trembling form in his arms, tears spilling down your face. What will your mother do when she hears of this? And Daemon? The thought is too much to bear.

As if he can sense what you are thinking, Aemond tugs on your hair, pulling your face close to his, lips crashing down onto your own in a searing kiss.

“You belong to me now, zaldrītsos,” Aemond rasps against your ear, low enough for only you to hear, “Just as I always wanted. I have the crown, permanently once I do away with my fool of a brother. And I will have the perfect queen.”

A shiver goes down your spine at his treasonous words.

Though it shocks you that it is not one of fear.

It is one of excitement.

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