#victorian clop art

[freecommercialclipart]

If you're looking for a vintage, beachy, feel for your graphic design project you'll love this bundle of 7 vector / png files of bathing beauties, seagulls, shells and more oceanside graphics.

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#graphic designers #free clip art #vintage clip art #victorian clop art #retro graphics #free vector files #beach clip art #beach graphics #retro beach #bathing beauty

[johaerys-writes]

Once Upon A Dream

Fandom: The Song of Achilles Pairing: Achilles/Patroclus

Prompt: Reincarnation!AU

This is my entry for Day 1 of @patrochillesweek 2020, where reincarnated Achilles and Patroclus meet in Victorian London! I hope you enjoy :)

Read here or on AO3!

***************

The rain pattered softly against the roof of the carriage as the horses pulled it through the grand gates of Lord Angove’s estate. It was just an hour’s drive from London, away from the bustle of the city, yet to me it seemed like the entire city had somehow found itself there. The long carriageway was filled with coaches, horse hooves clopping on the now muddy ground, lords and ladies in their finest outfits crowding before the manor’s entrance. In the dusk that was falling, the lit up windows looked like stars, gates into another realm, perhaps. It appeared almost dreamy, in the way the golden light of lamps and crystal chandeliers flickered and trembled, in sharp contrast to the darkening sky, to the shiny black wood of the coaches, the elaborately dressed figures that wove amongst each other like schools of fish, languidly drifting in warm, tropical waters.

“Let’s go,” my father said gruffly as soon as the carriage had stopped, snapping me out of my reverie.

The raindrops dampened the top of my head, the shoulders of my fine coat. It was amongst the finest I owned; my father had insisted I wear it, though it made me feel even more out of place than I already did. I followed him up the glossy marble steps, through the manor entrance, into the grand ballroom the footmen led us to. Chatter rose from every corner. Luxurious and decadent it was, without a doubt, with high, domed ceilings and elaborately carved columns, with exotic plants and odd artifacts that graced the walls. Lord Angove’s trading ships went far and wide, and they often brought back animals that no one had ever seen before, spices that burnt your tongue if you tried them, wines that were said to steal one’s wits after a couple swigs. The entire room seemed to be an extravagant display of wealth. Father disliked Lord Angove, of course, as he did most people. Including myself.

“Stand straight,” he hissed at me. “Don’t slouch.”

I sighed. “Yes, Father.” I squared my shoulders, lifted my chin. It was a hot evening despite the rain, and the scent of wet earth that drifted through the open windows mingled with the smell of freshly poured wines, of fine perfumes, of food being cooked in the kitchens below. I slipped a finger below my collar and carefully loosened it, taking in a breath. I hadn’t wanted to come, but Father had insisted upon it; so, I had acquiesced. And now I was paying for it, with a head that was already heavy and sore, and an undershirt that was slowly, yet steadily, growing damper.

I sipped on the sweet, red wine in my glass, wishing it was cool instead of uncomfortably lukewarm, when a wave of laughter drew my attention to the far end of the room, where a cluster of people gathered. Someone amongst them had just said a joke, I presumed, a rather hilarious one, judging by their reaction. That someone was standing in their midst, sipping on his wine, eyes glittering with mischief and satisfaction while the others howled. They were all young lords, their clothes were fine and well made, much finer than mine. Frills and ruffles, silks and velvets, thread of gold and silver embroideries on their sleeves, their doublets, their expensive vests. Perfectly groomed hair, beards and moustaches on comely faces, yet they all looked coarse and dull compared to the man they were all so affectionately peering at. His garb was simple compared to theirs, his hair gathered in a simple tail at the nape of his neck, strands of spun gold that glittered in the light as he moved. The colour of his skin was rich and slightly tan, like he’d been under the sun all day. He had this air about him, polite yet just a touch indifferent, like the doings of those around him did not interest him as much as they all assumed they did. Graceful, yet casually unaware of it; eyes as keen and sharp as a hunting cat’s. He smiled when someone whispered something in his ear. Peony coloured lips widened over teeth white as peeled almonds, and it seemed to me that the room grew a little brighter; he laughed, and his chin that lifted slightly exposed the soft, fawn-smooth skin of his throat.

I caught myself staring, and quickly looked away, but curiosity nagged at me. Who was this man?

“The Prince,” my father said, having noticed me watching.

I gaped at him. “The Prince? I thought he was studying in Rome.” So, that explained his tanned complexion, the golden, sun-kissed hair. Or did it?

“He’s recently returned,” Father continued. “The King’s health is failing, and he has been called for. He’s the most sought after bachelor right now. Dozens of families are clamouring for his hand. Soon, he’ll be the most powerful man in England.” He shot me a sharp and harshly appraising look. “This is what a son should be like.”

His words drove through me, like a lance. I pressed my lips firmly together, looked away from him. I hadn’t asked to be the way I was. I hadn’t asked to be small and weak and unremarkable in every way. I hadn’t even asked to be there, in that stifling, suffocating room, yet there I was. And no one was thanking me for it, or looking at me with glittering eyes, like they all seemed to look at him.  

The man in the distance said something again, and the others laughed and cheered, raising their glasses to him. Anger rose in me, slow and dull; and something else, something dark and sinister, like jealousy, that coated my tongue and made it taste bitter like bad almonds. Prince, I sneered, inside my head.

As if he had heard my thought, his gaze snapped to mine. Green and vibrant, twin emeralds that sharpened and focused on me. I stood, frozen, a deer before bright lights. Everything around me faded in the background, the people, the music, the jests and the songs. It was like time had stopped, and there was nothing else in the world, other than the two of us, gazing at each other from a great distance.

I jerked my eyes away, feeling heat travelling up my cheeks. It was not polite to stare. I shouldn’t have done it, yet something tugged at me, something that I couldn’t quite decipher. I turned back to him, but his attention had been diverted elsewhere once more. He seemed to have entirely forgotten I was there. He probably had.

Later, after the food had been served in the expansive hall and everyone had eaten and drank their fill, I had no desire to remain in the stuffy room. While my father talked with Lord Bramante about the King and the current state of affairs, I quietly slipped away, leaving the talk, music and commotion behind me. A few servants eyed me warily and bowed hastily when they passed me by in the otherwise empty corridors of the manor, and I nodded in acknowledgement, hoping that I hadn’t strayed too far, into areas of the house I was not supposed to be. At that moment, though, it didn’t feel like I wasn’t really supposed to be anywhere. The day had dragged on, and I was weary, and I wanted nothing more than to return to my own house, in my own room, and lock myself away from that world that did not agree with me.

I had heard that Lord Angove was a lover of the arts, and that was no lie. I passed room after room whose walls were almost entirely covered by frescos and large paintings, depicting idyllic scenes or scenes of battle from famous legends and stories. I followed them curiously, standing before this one or the other, noticing their details, the soft or dynamic brushstrokes, the colours, the emotions. There was one in particular I wanted to see, one that was said the Lord had acquired at great expense, painted by an artist who was supposed to be a master of his craft and had been dead for at least a hundred years. It would be hidden in some of the inner rooms, I guessed, so I followed the trail, looking for it. When I finally found it, I realised I was not the only one that sought to admire a piece such as that.

The Prince was standing before it. He was alone this time, without his loud entourage. He somehow seemed even more kingly without it. He looked serene, entirely absorbed; his silence and stately grace his only companions. I stood at the door, unsure whether I should intrude upon his quiet meditation or withdraw before he had noticed my presence. Before I’d managed to make up my mind, he turned to look at me with those keen, feline eyes of his.

“Come,” he told me, and his voice carried that effortless command that seemed to come so naturally to him. I obeyed, though somewhat grudgingly. I disliked being told what to do, yet he was the Prince. The heels of my shoes clicked on the polished marble floor as I approached, coming to stand beside him. His gaze had drifted from me to the painting before him once more.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” he asked. His voice was bright and clear like freshly melted snow, with a soft cadence to it that reminded me of the sighing of mountain winds, the trill of songbirds hidden in thick foliage, maple leaves stirring with the breeze. A stream flowing over polished rocks. Rose quartz crystals glittering in the morning light. Painted constellations on a domed cave roof.

Orion, I thought to myself, conjuring the shape of the stars in my mind. The Pleiades.  

I started at my own knowledge. I didn’t remember ever studying the names of constellations. I did not even know that place that sprung up in my memories, yet it felt like I did. Like I had been there, once. Perhaps in a dream.

I took a breath to clear my head and looked up at the large, magnificent painting, brushing the odd images away. The scene depicted was a large and messy one; a proud warrior was standing on his chariot, his golden armour glinting in the sun, his spear poised to be thrown, while scores of horses and chariots ran behind him. Awe gripped me the more I stared at it. “It is,” I replied, softly, as if scared to disturbed the man in the painting from his sacred mission.

“Are you familiar with the story of Achilles?”

“Of course,” I said. “Who isn’t?” My tutor had made me memorise the entire first book of the Iliad when I was little, had made me recite it to him word for word. I was never drawn to ancient myths and legends of battle, their ferocity felt odd and foreign to me, yet the legend of Achilles always held a place of wonder in my heart. A fearless warrior, the son of a goddess, a god himself- a human. A friend. A sworn and loyal companion. His devotion always at odds with his might, his arrogance, his hubris. How could I not know about his story? How could I not be drawn to it?

The Prince nodded, his hands folded at the base of his spine, his gaze still fixed on the painting. “Do you believe that he and Patroclus were lovers?” he asked, as if it was the most natural thing in the world to ask.

I choked in the act of swallowing, and my lungs spasmed in a fierce coughing fit. I wheezed and gasped through it, glancing wildly around me. If anyone had been there to hear-  I did not even want to think about what they would have thought. Lovers? I shivered. Such statements, such words were unthinkable, unutterable, unnatural.  

I did not want to admit that the very same thought had troubled me for nights on end.

He was watching me calmly, his gaze steady, while I gaped at him, my eyes wide as saucers.

“No,” I croaked, “of course not. They were friends, companions, not- not that. ” I blinked, and something like hope rose in me, swelling in my throat. “Weren’t they?”

He turned back to the painting. He stayed silent for a moment before he said, “Would you lay waste to an entire city for a friend?”

“If… if it was a good friend.”

“Would you keep his dead body in your room for days?”

“I-”

“Would you ask to be buried with him, for his ashes to be mingled with yours after you died?” His eyes focused on me, steady and relentless. “Those of your friend?”

I would, if it were you.

The thought came to my mind suddenly, unbidden. It was one of my own thoughts, yet it did not feel like mine. It was as if there was someone else whispering at me, or some hidden, forgotten part of me, struggling to break through. It shocked me to my very core, as much as it gripped and pulled at me. At that moment, as we gazed at each other, I knew it that, should he die, the world would lose something irreplaceable. Something beautiful and bright and true, and wasn’t that a crime to make all other crimes pale in comparison?

I tried to look away, tear my gaze from his but I was caught, pinned, unable to do anything else other than return his stare. His eyes were seas of forest green, and I was wading through them, breathless and eager to get somewhere, to find something. What, I did not know.

My mouth was dry when I tried to speak. "I… am not sure," I managed finally, after what felt like ages. "Perhaps."

He watched me in silence for a long moment. When he spoke, his voice was quiet, softer than it had been. "It always makes me wonder," he said. "The depth of his devotion. The magnitude of his grief. His… love. Simply put. I do not understand it, yet it pulls at me. It begs to be understood. To be made sense of." The Prince's attention was on me entirely now, as if there was nothing and no one else in the world for him right then. He tilted his head to the side, studying me. "Have we met before? I swear you look familiar."

There was no haughtiness to his expression, no mock or ridicule. There was interest, and earnest curiosity, as if my answer would shift something significant inside him.

"I don't believe so,” I replied, the words catching in my throat. “I'm sure I would remember." He was indeed familiar, I realised. I studied the contours of his face, sculptor perfect, the smooth skin that stretched over his brow. I followed the line of his jaw with my eyes, the tendons of his delicate throat. There was a grace in those features, soft like a woman's, but angular and precise at the same time. He looked like no one else I’d ever seen, yet I knew I’d seen him somewhere before. I knew, with a certainty that startled me, that I knew him.

The sound of his laugh, rich and clear like a babbling brook. His hair under the bright midsummer sun. The amber light of a fire catching in the emerald depths of his eyes. His hand in mine. Moments of happiness and grief, of quiet contemplation, and moments when my heart beat so hard I thought it would burst. A thousand little moments, like fireflies in the night, crowding forward.

“Maybe in a dream,” I whispered, before I’d even realised I’d spoken.

He considered my words carefully, holding my gaze, as if I’d said something of great wisdom.

“Yes,” he said, nodding slowly. “In a dream.”

The rain, soft like distant whispers, pattered gently against the window panes.

#patrochillesweek2020 #the song of achilles #achilles/patroclus #achilles #patroclus #patrochilles #tsoa #memories and echoes #johaerys writes

[forsythiaproductions]

Welcome to the official OSAS Tumblr!

Whether you’re returning to us from other platforms or are completely new to Of Sense and Soul, we do hope you’ll stay awhile!

We’re coming in to Tumblr a bit late—if you want to see our progress prior to this point, check out our blog, Twitter, or Instagram!

Our Project

In an age before the clip-clop of horseshoes disappeared off the streets of England, before the tipping of hats and the wearing of corsets were written off as the tidings of yesteryear, there are stories which have been lost to time — stories of people, of lives, and of love.

Ours is just such a tale, centred on two men navigating the smog-covered streets of Victorian London: Hugo Brooks, an editorialist who never adventures far outside the written word, and Seamus Charkham, a confirmed bachelor who is determined to gulp life down right to the last drop.Both are set in their ways, and both are in desperate need of a change, loath as they are to admit it. Despite wanting to believe they’re satisfied with continuing on as they have been, they find that sometimes, things can change for the better.In the London of 1875, their stories — their lives — become intertwined, and together begin to bloom and unfold...

Of Sense and Soul is a slice of life historical romance visual novel that centres on the meeting and diverging of the lives of our protagonists.

Playing as either of the two, players will make choices to change the direction of not just Hugo and Seamus' relationship but also their lives and relationships to their friends and family.

There are currently two planned character routes, with six total endings and an epilogue route to be unlocked after two specific endings have been found.

As of February 2020, we plan to have a demo ready for release by the end of Q2 of 2020.

About Us

We are a small dev team consisting of (currently) three people. OSAS was created by two of these three—@ingthing and @floralegia​—who are the lead artist and writer respectively! You can read a little more about us on our website.

If you'd like to follow along with our dev journey or just chat, you can find us at @ofsenseandsoul on Twitter and Instagram, as well as Of Sense and Soul VN on Facebook, for updates, fun facts, and development art!

Thanks for dropping by, and have a lovely day!

#visual novel #vndev #indiedev #victorian #historical romance #historical fiction #info post

[sml-str]

Connotations

Summary: Victorian Era!AU. Castiel meets Sam Winchester by chance alone and shares a brief conversation; perhaps there’s more to come out of it than Castiel anticipated.

Word Count: 1808

Pairing: Sastiel

Important Notes: This entire fic is based on a beautiful piece of art by @yifera. Find it here. No seriously, please check it out. It’s more gorgeous than anything I could ever write. 

Last but not least, an important thank you goes to this fic’s beta, @smolstiel, who not only is a good part of why this fic even has a title and decent summary but is also the one who helped make this fic worth reading in big ways.

(Edit: You can also now read this on Ao3 if you would prefer.)

Have a nice day.

Castiel Novak had heard and uttered the phrase many times. In his neighborhood – the richer, politer, more passive-aggressive part of the city – it was practically slung around like a small child’s stuffed toy as the farewell for any context.

When passing by a neighbor or family member briefly, have a nice day. After requesting something from the help, have a nice day. When attempting to exit any conversation at a party, it was have a nice evening, and it would have to be stated at least three times before escape was finally within reach. When finally walking away from a heated discussion with one of his brothers, after voices finally started to lower again – have a nice day.

Castiel had never once heard the civil goodbye sound so very… welcoming.

Of course, the one time he did would be on the invisible line of the city between the upper classes and the slums. Castiel wouldn’t even have gone if it were not for cruelties of necessity. A business transaction had demanded it. Mr. Crowley had refused to sell ownership of one of his factories to the Novak family in any other location than his own office; a representative was required. Castiel, as always, was handed the dirty work.

So Castiel had put on a fairly nice outfit with his favored beige coat – the one his mother hated the most – grabbed his hat and walked, on his own. He could have taken a carriage, which included the constant, dutiful reminder of Samandriel, but he only liked the usage of horses for transportation if he was directly riding them. So he walked on, avoiding the shaking heads of his carriage-adoring family as he exited the manor, squinting a bit at Miss Meg when she attempted to invite him over for tea, and some ‘deeper appreciation for furniture arrangement’ as he passed her by (Have a nice day, mademoiselle), and braving the short journey ahead.

Would walking make him late to meeting Mr. Crowley? Yes. Would the weasel still sell? As soon as he was threatened with the possibility of the Novak family buying property from a certain rival instead, yes.

Castiel straightened his hat with one hand as he delved into town, strolling along the cobbled paths with his eyes set directly forwards as a man on one mission. The chatter of London surrounded him as he went, the clopping and rolling of horses pulling carriages through the streets harmonizing with the babbling of strangers going by. He ignored it all. 

He would have continued doing so if someone only a yard or so to his left pulled his eyes away from their target.

Castiel had never considered himself prone to distractions.

The someone was a rugged young man, sitting on the porch of a two-story house that was too nice to belong to him, perhaps for him to even live in, wearing a shirt that may have at some point been white, a gray cap, and worn out trousers that showcased an impressively long pair of legs splayed over the two steps. Castiel had to be at least a year his senior, but it was evident that the man ahead of him was at least four or five inches taller, despite Castiel’s already fairly impressive height.

Their eyes met and locked together for a passing moment. Castiel managed a polite nod in the stranger’s direction, keeping his feet moving ahead.

A smile crept onto the young man’s dirt-smudged face as he reached up to tip his cap. “Have a nice day.”

There was something about the man’s warm tone – something that was certainly not expecting Castiel to just carry on with his day, something that was definitely almost maybe wanting Castiel to stick around – that caused him to hang back for a few moments rather than continue on. There was something about the way the man’s mouth had moved when he said it that made Castiel want to see it again.

So Castiel lingered, one foot still ahead of him as his own mouth refused to function, his mind too scattered to repeat the sentiment back. “Oh. I, ah… have…You’re – nice.”

The man chuckled with a soft noise. His head tilted a bit, exposing the left side of his lean neck and highlighting the light dip where it met his shoulder. “Well, uh, thank you, sir.”

Castiel had the most awful feeling that his cheeks were beginning to flush, an action they hadn’t performed since the very first time someone expressed interest in him, back when he was young. “Yes.”

There was pause as the young man seemed to study Castiel, a surprising amount of intelligence seeming to shine through – blue? green? hazel? – eyes as he did so.  “Yes.” Still giving Castiel the same soft smile, he introduced himself. “I’m Sam, by the way. Sam Winchester.”

Castiel silently wrote the name down in his memory, mentally repeating it a few times before he remembered that introductions were typically mutual, shifting forward. “Castiel Novak. It’s very nice to meet you, Samuel Winchester. …Sam.”

“Nice to meet you too, Cas,” Sam grinned a bit as he spoke, eyes twinkling as he straightened up and lifted his head slightly, the new position allowing more of the sun to shine down on features that Castiel could only describe as striking. “You come around these parts often? Just – out of curiosity; I don’t think I’ve seen you.”

If Castiel hadn’t definitely known much, much better, that nickname with that specific question would have almost come across as flirtations.

“Ah, no, I do not,” Castiel answered honestly, planning to end the sentence there but his own tongue betrayed him. “Well, at least, I haven’t – at this moment in time… Perhaps? Well, wait, no, actually, I…” He clamped his mouth shut willfully, shifting his weight once again as he mentally cursed his own foolishness.

Sam let out another chuckle but quieter. If Castiel’s damned mind had thought of Sam’s words as coquettish before, Sam’s simple response to his rambling only fueled it. “Pity.”

“I could start,” Castiel blurted out suddenly, before quickly trying to rebound. “I mean to say, it’s good to know one’s own city well. I should pay more attention to what it has to offer.”

“It’s got one or two things, here and there.” Sam made eye contact with him again, that same intelligence shining from them directly into what felt like Castiel’s soul, and Sam’s words were what Castiel thought could only have been an open invitation and – no, don’t go there.

This was not an invitation, it couldn’t have been, and yet Castiel could feel the unfamiliar sensation of his heart beating against his ribcage at a faster pace, a feeling he hadn’t had since he’d come home from studying abroad. He found he couldn’t peel his eyes away again. “I can see that.”

Oh, good God, no.

What a fine time to consider carving out his own tongue, for his own sake. His brothers would be so glad to hear of this decision.

That is not what he meant to say, except it was because he’d been looking right at Sam, and that makes it worse, you fool – and there was definitely a thing in this area that made this area worth it, but now Sam would realize Castiel’s thoughts and would no longer want to talk to him further.

Instead of looking at Castiel oddly or retracting immediately from the conversation, Sam only ducked his head a bit as if embarrassed – that couldn’t be right – and lifted it and oh, why was Sam’s face tinged pink? Castiel raised his head towards the sky. Ah, right, the sun. Heat. That made more sense.

A brute force collided with Castiel’s back and propelled him forwards a few steps, his top hat being knocked off of his head and onto the stone path. Castiel lifted his head up to see the back of the large man’s head who’d bumped into him walk away, leaving in a rush of air that ruffled his coat. Then he looked around, remembering what he was actually doing there, as well as the fact that he was taking up space on the narrow walkway.

He straightened his coat lightly, then started to reach down to grab his hat. Long, nimble fingers beat him to it. He blinked, watching as Sam picked it up for him, even going so far as to brush it off, before standing and holding it out with a slightly crooked smile.

Sam was as tall as his legs had earlier predicted.

Castiel took the hat, setting it back on top of his head. “Ah, yes. Thank you. It’s unwise to perform a business meeting without a good hat.”

Another amused huff, followed by, “That’s true.” Sam reached up, tipping his own cap just a bit in agreement. “Speaking of, I should let you get back to that.” A pause. “It was nice talking to you, Cas.”

“Yes. Yes,” Castiel replied quickly with a sharp nod. “Er, I mean to say, it was nice talking to you too, Sam.” Please talk with me more.

He studied Sam’s eyes for a mere moment, blinking when the younger man before him held out his hand. It took a moment for his mind to catch up with the action, clearing his throat as he extended his arm to accept the handshake. He could feel the warmth of Sam’s hand as their wrists lifted and fell in unison; he almost cursed himself for choosing to wear gloves.

He fidgeted after their hands released each other’s, before giving a polite smile and another tip of his hat, forcing himself away before his tongue could spit out another humiliating statement. His face was heating up too much for his liking for him to check over his shoulder, but he almost thought he could feel Sam’s eyes on him. He almost wanted them to be.

He shook his head once he turned the corner of the street as if to shake away the image of Sam’s face burned into the back of his head. His hands reached up to fix his collar, lifting his head up high as he grew closer to his destination. No more distractions.

Mr. Crowley’s bearded expression was scrunched with indignation when Castiel finally arrived at his dimly lit office. “You’re late, Mr. Novak.”

Castiel had the decency to look shamed for a brief moment, nodding slowly as he let one of the servants take his coat and hat. He pulled out one of the two chairs in front of Crowley’s sleek wooden desk, sitting down gracefully without invitation. “Ah – yes. I apologize for my tardiness.” He offered a thin, considerably unapologetic smile. “I’ve been having a rather nice day.”

#Sastiel #Sam Winchester #Castiel #samcas #Victorian!Au #my writing #Awkward Cas is Awkward #Sam is not as bad of a flirt as Dean probably anticipated

[brallonsin]

The Swan King

http://beeisatthedisco.livejournal.com/1661.html

Chapter 1

“They say that I’m insane, I am walking dysphoria.” After all, who wouldn’t want to be king of 6 million struggling, troublesome civilians?

George Ryan Ross III was a shy dreamer, who had none of the typical characteristics of a popular king. his father had fallen seriously ill and to say he was anxious would be an understatement.

One of his advisors, William, was doing his best to calm the man down but to no avail, although Ryan (as he preferred to be called, much to his parents dismay) was always calm on the outside, William knew him well enough to sense the destructive turmoil currently intruding on his brain.

“Please, sir, you must consider it… You’re the only heir and your father couldn’t possibly create another in his current state. It’s going to be soon, sir, but your advisors are all here for you.”

William spoke of death like it was nothing, there was a harrowing comfort about that, if only Ryan had cared about his father the way all his subjects seemed to. King George Ross II had all the typical characteristics of a popular king. He was strong, cutthroat, centred, decisive. He lives with integrity and he protects his realm. Ryan would never compare.

“I wish to remain an eternal enigma to myself and others. I’m not a king.” Ryan was an introvert from when he was young, he only saw his parents when he sat next to them at church on Sunday’s. Worshipping a God he didn’t agree with and a religion he was beginning to question.

Human beings were weird creatures, Ryan had learnt, they were complex and difficult and often quite stressful. He had taught himself to disassociate into fantasy, into worlds where he could be himself. Where he could be the shy dreamer and no one would ask him to be otherwise.

“Yes, sir.” William sighed, defeated. He would try again in the morning, he knew Ryan had no choice. Brent, the head advisor would have something not very pleasant to say about this entire situation

***

“Did you speak to him?” A low voice rumbled through the baroque, decorative hallways, the high ceilings were particularly lavish, painted God’s and angels dancing across them.

“Yes, Mr. Wilson, I had the usual response. He’s not cut out for the throne, you and I both know that…” William tried, wincing a little bit as Brent spun around on his heel and pressed William up against the closest wall.

“And that, William, is exactly why we need him to be king. Once that pitiful old man dies, Ryan will be forced into power and God know’s that boy is easily influenced. I can rule over the kingdom of Ilargia and use the kid as a puppet. He probably won’t even have his nose out of his book long enough to notice.” Brent was smirking as though he couldn’t wait, too close to William’s face.

William swatted the man off him, pushing him back. “Then ask him yourself, Brent. Ryan may be quiet but he’s a good guy, nothing like his self absorbed father. Smart too. He’ll figure you out before you can bat an eyelid.” he scoffed before forcing past him and heading to his room, he’d had enough of Brent Wilson for one day, understandably.  

***

Ryan left his room an hour before midnight, as if on cue. One of the stable boys always rode Ryan’s horse, Femur around this time in a field just beyond the courtyard and he enjoyed to watch from a distance. He always had a penchant for people who shared his love of animals, of course he would never have the courage to introduce himself.

The heir sat on a bench close enough to the large, ornate fountain in the middle of the gardens, that the spray tickled the back of his neck. He was wearing all black, only a white shirt under a black double breasted waistcoat, thin black bowtie and black overcoat. Ryan prided himself on keeping up to date with the latest french victorian fashion, the rest of Ilargia dressed in such a boring, understated manner compared to the french.

What Ryan’s childhood world lacked in affection, it made up for in visual richness. Even as a small child he began to derive pleasure from the beauty around him. If there were anything positive to say about his family, it would be their long standing passion for art and architecture.

The trees surrounding his palace at the foothill of the mountains began to rustle with the alpine wind. A familiar noise, the sound of clip-clopping hooves and Femur nickering happily to herself. Ryan wishes he had more time in the day to ride her, she clearly enjoyed it. He watched the figure of a human in the distance bouncing up and down with perfect rhythm atop his horse and smiled, he wondered which stable hand it was. It seemed to be the same person each time, a young man from what he could make out.

“Ryan” Ugh. Brent’s voice rudely dragged him kicking and screaming out of his day dream. Or… evening dream, as it were. The man approached him with a wide, fake smile, about to tell him that the heir should be asleep at this time, how he needed his rest, no doubt. “You shouldn’t be awake at this hour, Master Ross, never mind spying on servants out here in the cold.” He spoke more aggressively this time, smile plastered firmly on his face regardless.

“What do you want?” Ryan asked, dully, impatiently as he ignored his advisor for the most part in favour of watching his horse among the pavilions, statues and waterways that littered the gardens, the moon catching the man on the horse like a spotlight a handful times, reflecting his skin and contrasting with his dark eyes and hair.

“William tells me you’re still nervous about taking your fathers place, well, I strongly suggest this attitude changes quickly. They’ll crucify you if you’re not ready, anyone would kill to be in this position Master Ross and I advise you take our word and get used to it.” He taps his shoulder, making him stand and leading the 18 year old back to the palace.

Ryan turned in time to watch Femur disappear along the canals, they ran in front of and behind the palaces, each about a mile long, the one behind ending in a dramatic marble cascade. One of Ryan’s favourite spots as a child. He smiled and returned to his bedroom, at least he had enough of a story in his mind to send him to sleep easily tonight.

http://beeisatthedisco.livejournal.com/1661.html

#the swan king #ryden #fanfiction

[snowbellewells]

CS Role Reversal: “The Case of the Heart in Armor”

Here is my submission for the @csrolereversal​ event.  It is written from the inspiration of this brilliantly intriguing art by @courtorderedcake​. So make sure to send her all the love for her work!! :)

(Her imagery very strongly reminded me of both Sherlock Holmes and also a bit of Eliza Doolittle in My Fair Lady, and so I ran with it, with @courtorderedcake​‘s blessing of course.  Now, I LOVE Victorian literature, so this of course got out of hand and will now be more than one part. Oops? (How do I keep doing this to myself?!?)  I hope you all won’t mind, and I’ll try not to keep you waiting too long, but I’m not even going to try to guess how many parts anymore. I’m giving that up...  Anyway, I hope you enjoy this opening segment!) 

Summary: Killian “Holmes” Jones is rarely surprised or shocked anymore, but that all changes when he meets one very stubborn - and very beautiful - pickpocket, and trouble brews in the distance, hidden by the London fog... “The Case of the Heart in Armor”

by: @snowbellewells​

Part One

Almost instantaneously, Killian “Holmes” Jones knew something had happened. There was very little that escaped his notice - ever - and the fact that someone had just nicked the gold pocketwatch he always wore was immediately evident, despite their having one of the lightest touches he had experienced in his time walking the seedier London streets. An expectant hush lingered in the air, as if his very surroundings waited to see how he would proceed, and if he could pinpoint just who had divested him of his valuable.

At first glance, the dingey, fog-shrouded and mostly deserted street looked the same as it ever did. There were distant sounds of carriage wheels and horses’ hooves clopping along the cobblestones a street over, the echo of vendors crying their wares, and the distant puff of trains pulling in and out of the station at Marylebone, but in the street where Jones stood, not far from his favored pub, where he was to meet Graham Watson and his older brother, once Liam had left his cushy government office for the night, to share some dinner, things were comparatively calm and still.

That was, until a flash of golden brightness caught his eye, winking from the drab surroundings of brown and grey. The flower cart girl just behind and to his left had not caught his attention when he passed, had not seemed of any particular interest. Even now that the arresting color of her blonde tresses were peeking out of the rather flat, bedraggled hat atop them, she seemed to be busy at her own work, not noticing him at all. And yet, there was something almost too casual about her stance - a marked avoidance of his gaze, as if she were carefully watching him without wishing to seem so. Perhaps some movement had tipped him off unconsciously, but whatever the reason, Killian sensed she was his culprit. Or, if not, she had at least seen something she would rather not share.

Striding purposefully toward her cart of flowers for sale, Killian’s mouth formed a stern line as he prepared to confront the slip of a woman for her thievery. She was still concertedly paying him no mind, though he was certain that she tracked his path warily from the corner of her sparkling jade eyes.

Opening her mouth, she called out the flowers she had on offer along with their prices, pointedly turning away as he came to stand before her. Her voice rang out across the cobblestones clearly, if somewhat tangled by the thick Cockney accent that lay heavy on her tongue. Even if he normally cringed at the harsh sounds of the street vendors and ruffians of the area, he found himself somewhat charmed by the unabashed and almost proud bit of rough he sensed in this one.

Reaching out, he snatched the handful of carnations from her grip, and turned abruptly as if to leave, knowing it would get a rise from the intriguing guttersnipe.

“Oi! Get yer bloomin’ ‘ands off me merchandise if ya don’ mean ta pay!” she cried, her temper riled like a hellcat on the turn of a dime, much as Jones had expected it would be.

Swinging back to face her, which brought them practically nose-to-nose , as she had begun to charge after him, Killian waggled his brows insolently, making the challenge plain, even before he spoke. “Perhaps I might return them… in exchange for my watch, eh Lass?”

Jerking backwards, the impudent young woman eyed him warily for a second as if trying to gauge the true meaning of his words, to discern if he were just fishing for information, or if he really knew what she had done, and then she narrowed her pretty eyes at him, slamming a wall down over the openness he had glimpsed for a moment, allowing him to see past the scruffy interior to something more vulnearable, something (if he were even a bit more gullible) which might have seemed sweet. “Lookit Mister, don’t think that fine hat and pipe and your sharp suit gives you leave to muck about with foolish accusations. I ain’t about ta take none o’ your guff, an’ I don’ ‘ave your filthy watch, so just move on along why don’cha?”

Whether she realized she was doing it or not, the blonde had stepped right back into his space, nearly as soon as she had pulled away. The ridiculous chit actually had the pluck to act like an offended innocent, when Killian became all the more certain with each passing second that she had his pilfered watch hidden on her person even as they spoke. Her pointer finger jabbed into his chest next to the top button of his waistcoat for emphasis, and she wasn’t backing down an inch. She had fire, he would give her that; he was almost as impressed as he had initially been irked.

However, now that his challenge had been taken up, Jones felt his competitive nature roar to life within, and he intended to prove her wrong, to show her just whom she had trifled with and that he was not her average fool. He leaned forward as well, his lips nearly brushing the shell of her ear as he murmured, “Perhaps you’d allow me to search you and verify your statement?” Allowing his eyes to rove down from her face slowly before trailing back up again, his tongue poking into the inside of his cheek suggesting the sort of shameless liberties he would never actually take with a lady, no matter what her situation or social status. He might play at a bit of dashing roguishness, but he still considered himself a man of honor at his core.

Those green eyes flashed the same sort of warning color the sky out over the Thames took on when a storm was rolling in and the wise knew to run for cover; the sickening chartreuse of a deep, bruised wound and every bit as risky to provoke or fail to heed. Snatching back the finger that had been pressed against his breastbone, his beguiling nemesis raised her hand, clearly intending to strike him for his cheek - which, admittedly, he quite probably deserved - if he had not caught her wrist in a firm grasp that stalled the motion.

“Easy now, Love,” he murmured, enjoying her gumption too much to leave well enough alone. “Let’s not have you doing something we’ll both regret.”

“I am NOT your love!” she spat back, wriggling in his hold and looking livid enough to claw his eyes out if he let her free to do so. “And if you don’t unhand me…” she hissed, the threat clear now, even as a glimmer of fear also surfaced beneath the fire in her gaze. Killian had no doubt that she would follow through on whatever threat she was about to make, but that flicker and the slight quaver it allowed him to hear in her sharp voice told him she also didn’t know what might happen to her in the meantime, before she could make good on her words. And that hint of trepidation, that she didn’t know his true intentions and felt in herself in danger, quickly doused the fire he’d felt rising in his blood and his own fun in their back and forth.

Quickly, he retreated a step and released her arm, though his boxing reflexes were at the ready, knowing he might well be ducking a slap or punch in the very next moment.

To Killian’s surprise, however, the infuriating lass pulled herself up to her full height, smoothed her rather bedraggled skirts, and eyed him disdainfully as was possible under the circumstances. “Right wise choice you made there,” she snarked, huffing her annoyance as if she hadn’t been the one to start the whole debacle by picking his pocket in the first place. The very real worry he had sensed in her only seconds ago had vanished as if it were never there. “You’d be sorry had I gotten me brother on the case. He’s Chief Inspector, and he don’ take kindly to blighters like you harassing me.”

“Wait a minute now,” Killian interrupted, holding up a hand as he considered her rant, for the first time in their entire interaction feeling a bit out of the loop. “You don’t mean Chief Inspector Nolan? Of Scotland Yard?”

“The very same,” she snapped, arms crossed in front of herself. “What of it?”

Killian’s mind - rarely ever puzzled or caught by surprise, and so all the more intrigued by the seeming anomaly before him - struggled to catch up with and match this saucy baggage before him with the straight-laced knight-in-armor type he sometimes counseled in particularly complex criminal investigations. Inspector David Nolan was as by-the-book, simple and solid as they came, not by any means dense, but certainly not possessed with as cracklingly sharp wit or tongue as the angry sprite squared off before him. The Inspector had also never mentioned any family whatsoever beyond his sweet, fresh-faced wife and newborn son, but then again, it wasn’t as if they were ‘mates’ either. Jones couldn’t exactly see himself kicking back for a pint of rum with the man, even if they did tolerate each other in the name of justice from time to time. 

He was about to tell the feisty harridan before him that he didn’t bloody care who her brother was, he would be having his watch back, when she stunned him once more, her chin jutting up imperiously as she added, “What? Din’ think a street rat like me ‘ad friends in higher places, eh?”

“On the contrary, Love,” Killian countered, purposefully emphasizing the endearment he had simply used out of habit before but now meant to annoy her, as he tapped the brim of his hat in the semblance of a bow. “I think you must have some remarkable friends indeed, or someone would have taught you a lesson in manners by now.” Her mouth opened and closed, floundering for a sharp retort no doubt, but he wasn’t yet finished. “Like it or not, I know you have something of mine, and I will see it returned.”

Nearly growling in frustration, she whirled away from him, turning her back and quickly moving away with the rest of her wares.

Jones watched her go troubled, curious, and stirred all at once; a curious cocktail he hardly recognized it had been so long since last he felt it. Though he didn’t have time to stand there long before he hurried off to meet Graham and Liam, sure that he would now be the one late instead of his elder sibling.

He didn’t notice - yet one more uncharacteristic slip in his usual near-omniscient awareness - the strange rosy glow in the twilight darkness of the now deserted street where he and the flower cart thief had argued. From around the corner of a packed nearby alley, narrowed dark eyes had watched the entire encounter, tracking either Holmes or the girl with avaricious interest. The reddish light glowed brighter for an instant as the excitement of its possessor swelled, so bright that for a moment if anyone had still been present it could not have been missed. Then, the red beacon was shuttered, going out like an extinguished flame. Once more there was only a nondescript London street, and the unseen watcher off on their sinister mission, having seen what was needed, unbeknownst to those who were observed.

Tagging a few others who may enjoy: @kmomof4​ @jennjenn615​ @hollyethecurious​ @searchingwardrobes​ @whimsicallyenchantedrose​ @resident-of-storybrooke​ @laschatzi​ @drowned-dreamer​ @aloha-4-ever​ @thisonesatellite​ @teamhook​ @revanmeetra87​ @therooksshiningknight​ @snidgetsafan​ @shireness-says​

#cs role reversal #cs fic for cs art #cs detective au #cs Victorian au ff #for @courtorderedcake's art