#Dignity and Impudence

[weirdchristmas]

Dignity \& Impudence

[dooberific]

❝𝘖𝘧 𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘍𝘭𝘰𝘸𝘦𝘳𝘴 𝘪𝘯 𝘍𝘰𝘯𝘵𝘢𝘪𝘯𝘦❞

pre release wriothesley x afab!reader

genre: nsfw (dacryphilia, creampie, idk how to finish tagging this hehe)

wc: 2.7k

summary: Despite his imposing stature, your lover is the softest and most genuine man you know. His regular praises make it seem like you hung the very stars in the sky, so why his sudden withdrawl?

There was just something different about the flowers of Fontaine. Maybe it had something to do with the land, moist plains sweeping up into sharp mountain peaks that passed a gentle breeze over the winding waterways below. The easy smell of rain, the babbling streams that fed into raging waterfalls that drenched all below in a fine mist. 

They seemed to grow a little differently, proud and tall like the Rainbow roses dotting the hillsides, their very own fine bonnets adorning their heads as their brilliant appearances dazzled passing strangers.

Perhaps that was why the simplicity of the Marcotte slipped under so many eyes, winding through life with a silent elegance and glowing smile so heartfelt and utterly kind that even the most icy of hearts would tremble under the warmth of her gaze. She would never be a rose, nor would she ever entertain the thought of it, laughing away the idea with great mirth dancing in her eyes and a grin lingering on her lips well after the encounter. 

You may never be a rose, but your simplistic and nostalgic charms had catalyzed such a violent reaction that he was sure you had hung the very sun in the sky, elevating its position as a kindness for your own radiance far out shone the largest star in the Teyvat sky. 

But if you were the Marcotte, so delicate and pure, then what was he? Surely he was nothing but a weed in the garden of the gods, a wicked thing who rose from the dirt to strangle the life out of the pretty and soft things around. There was a trail of battered roses in his wake, resentful that the weed had never blossomed into something worthwhile as they had dreamed, that it had spent their precious time, basked in their light, and then left them to wither away in anger. 

But the Marcotte was wild and resilient, your unbreakable and hearty spirit more than strong enough to carry your own burdens with grace and dignity even before you had unfurled your brilliant petals. 

Pure and wild chased by the impure and plotting.

You should resent him for his wickedness, his impudence to dare stand under the same sun as you. He couldn’t help himself, he was little more than a moth drawn to a flame, a weed that kept creeping back into the garden. How long had he waited, chasing fleeting images and the feeling a hand could never hope to emulate, before your own interests had become so entranced that you allowed him closer? 

He would swear it was all unintentional from the beginning, that it had all started as a draw to your magnetic personality. Fleeting kisses of parting after he walked you home at night giving way to deeper intentions as he cornered you against the door and indulged you a little more intimately. The wet slide of his tongue into your mouth, the firmness of his hands trailing down your sides and toying with the hem of your shirt. The little whines from your lips as your fingers carded through his hair, a sting in your calves from standing on your toes as his chapped lips ravaged your neck, your body pressed flush to his own. 

It was such a natural progression until it suddenly wasn’t. Kisses left broken as he hastily departed, a harsh flush creeping to his ears as he apologized and took his leave. The onset of his behavior had left your head spinning with questions. Had you done something wrong? He never acted strangely about you until those last and most private moments together, maybe his interest was waning? If you had grown boring you would understand, it wasn’t like your job or life were particularly riveting—

Too many unasked questions, and too much sleep lost. You were not so shy or proud to confront an issue head on, and while Wriothesley loved that trait of your personality he loved it a little less when it was weaponized against him as you stood at his door, a finger pressed to his lips and a stern yet wary look in your eyes as you shushed his questions and gave him a piece of your own mind.

He really was nothing short of a weed, too cowardly to have confronted the issue before it had become a problem. He was a liar, unable to hold your burning gaze as he forced some half-assed excuse past his lips. He certainly could not tell you that his hasty departures had been the product of your evening rendezvouses which simply stoked the fire that the all consuming thoughts of you kept burning in his veins, of the perverse feeling stirred by the lovesick look in your eyes that was increasingly hard to resist. There would be no kindness in those pretty eyes should you know that he could barely touch you now without getting hard, that a moment too long basking in your presence would surely have him cumming in his pants with the same choked gasp that he so poorly suppressed as he jerked himself off later fantasizing your pretty cunt wrapped around him. 

There was no question of want, he needed you. He needed to defile you with every dirty thought that ever dizzied his head, to have you fucked dumb on his cock and begging for more because you knew he couldn’t resist. What a shitty lover he felt like, having let you think you had ever done a thing wrong when it was just his own self disgust that he couldn’t keep it together that was wedging you apart. 

Maybe just once he could show you, and if you hated him for it he could beg for your forgiveness. Just this once he would kiss you like always, whispers of reassurance passing between you that there was nothing wrong with you, you were perfect. Just this once would he not fight the onslaught of debauched feelings that flooded him the moment you sighed against his lips, parting your own at the gentle tease of his tongue. He would kiss you deeply and with no regrets or holds, making your head spin from the lack of oxygen as the feeling of his warm hands settling on your body as he pressed you against the wall. He wouldn’t make some shitty excuse to leave when he felt his pants tighten, nor would he apologize for the moment he grinded his hips deeply against your own in search of that heavenly bit of friction only you could provide. 

He swallowed your surprised gasp, hell bent on smothering you with every ounce of his affection with sloppy kisses and a tangle of tongue. One hand settled at the nape of your neck anchoring you to him as the other hooked under your thigh, drawing it up to rest at his hip as he pressed deeper between your legs and you whimpered at the roll of his hips against the apex of your thighs. 

He broke away from your lips, his forehead pressed flush to your own. Your cheeks were tinged pink, eyes dazed as your lip quivered from the greedy breaths you sucked in. His voice was deeper, huskier and tainted with lust.

“I want you.” 

Your own voice was shaky as you replied.

“Then you may have me.”

Your sheer stockings and well pressed skirts were hardly more than heaps of fabric on his floor, pearl buttons of your blouse scattered if not clinging to mere threads. A blind stumble through the house had left a trail of what was easiest to remove. Had it not been for his insistence to do right by you and take you in his bed he was assured he would have bent you over the nearest surface and had his way with you. 

He swore deeply to any archon that would listen that he would be the most devout follower should they let him remember your disheveled look in the clearest of details, from the smear of your lipstick and the swollen lips he had indulged himself in to the sweeping curves of your body that he had marred with his teeth which now burned the angry red of ruptured capillaries. His kisses were smothering as his hands explored every inch of newly exposed skin, leaving a trail of chills from his cold fingers. He was a gentleman even in the most dirty of moments, all ‘please’ and ‘thank you’ as he waited for you confirmation as if he was still hesitant to think it anymore than a vivid dream to unclip your bra and lathe his tongue over the delicate flesh beneath, to drag his fingers over the soaked fabric of your panties and press his thumb harshly against that little bud of flesh that made your hips jerk in his grasp.

He was sure the sinful noise that parted your lips the moment he pressed your panties aside and flattened his tongue against your weeping cunt had been permanently seared into his brain right alongside the taste of you. The clamp of your pretty thighs against the side of his head only encouraged his efforts, calloused hands easily prying you open as he tongue teased past your lips and his nose pressed against your clit. Your shaky cries that it was too much fell on deaf ears, your fingers fisting into his hair to pull him off a stark contrast to the way your pretty hips grinded against his face begging for more. 

He wasn’t so heartless to stop when he knew what was best for you. It wasn’t like you knew, and the flush on your cheeks as you had so softly admitted to him your intact virginity had him questioning if you had ever pleasured yourself at all. It was his duty now to show you what needed, to strip you of every ounce of purity, to fuck you so good you would never consider another man to be capable. 

You could taste yourself on his lips, a bitter combination lost quickly on your mind as he dragged your panties down and pressed his calloused fingers into your cunt. His fingers felt thick and rough as he gave a few experimental pumps into your wet heat before burying them to the knuckle and curling them into your walls, relishing the heady cry that escaped your body as your hips canted into his palm.

“Fuck, baby, so fucking tight.” He groaned into your lips, his fingers scissoring you open as he set a brutal pace to loosen you up, the rough pad of his thumb circling and teasing your clit as the wet sound of your cunt met his ears. 

“Wrio, please I-,” You choked out, arms wrapping around his neck as the wave of molten lust that clogged your veins and made your stomach twist so delightfully became unbearable. 

“I’ve got you baby.” 

His words, low and reassuring in your ear, were the last straw as he fingerfucked you into an orgasm. Your whole body buzzed as you cried out sharply, your face buried into his neck as you came on his fingers, thighs clamped desperately around his hand as your entire body quivered. 

Your dearest lover Wriothesley felt safe and warm as he settled over your boneless body, gentle kisses pressing away the tears that had streaked down your cheeks from a pleasure never before indulged in. Any notion of vulnerability or embarrassment had been stripped away, replaced by the simple thought that his fingers seemed to intertwine so perfectly with your own just as his body seemed to slot so perfectly between your legs, as if he were some piece of a puzzle you hadn’t realized you were missing.

It was that sense of utter completion that overwhelmed you as his cockhead teased your entrance, the sense of the intrusion so much you forgot to breathe as your body trembled. You could feel every engorged vein, every ridge that bullied deeper into your cunt with the slow roll of his hips, how heavily he was pressed inside you. 

He hissed at the feeling, how tightly you still wrapped around him. His grip on your hips was bruising, a vain attempt to ground himself in the moment of the realization of his most hedonistic desires and the simple truth that you were so much fucking better than he could have ever dreamed. 

He fucked you deep and slow, reveling in the little sounds you made only for his ears, the gentle begging of his name in a tone reserved just for him. An exchange of sloppy kisses left your head spinning, his cock nestled deep in your womb, every slow thrust teasing that spongy spot inside that made your walls tighten and your legs quiver.

He was so kind, even as he felt that last of his composure slipping with the breathy whisper pressed to his ear that he could have his way with you. It had to be that look of glowing adoration in your eyes as you stared up at him, body rocking gently with each thrust as he made love to you, but he could be good for you just this once.

Just this once to press a kiss to the inside of your knee as he practically folded you in half. Just this once, to intertwine your fingers as he bottomed out in you with one smooth motion. Just this once to fuck you like he really meant it, to watch your eyes gloss over and tears pool at your lashline. Just this once, yet a thousand times over, another lie he would tell himself as if he wouldn’t pound you into his mattress until you couldn’t walk if you asked for it. 

Your fingernails scraped harshly against his skin, your own little desperate cling to reality. You didn’t think it was possible for him to feel any deeper, finding it hard to breathe at the new angle as you were certain he was well into your guts by now. Your mind was utterly blank, his name falling from your lips like a prayer as he fucked you with a new fervor as if to shape your insides to only remember the feeling of him. That heated, gut twisting sensation had rebuilt and teetered dangerously on the brink of collapse just as quickly.

He could tell you were close, your words slurring into an incoherent babble of his name. He could practically feel you tighten around him, willing him to finish you off as he leaned forward. 

“That’s my girl, cum for me.”

He kissed you, muffling the sharp whine you released as that familiar heat snapped violently in your gut. The harsh pull of your pussy was too much for him to resist, his hips stuttering as his teeth sank into your lower lip. It was a hot, sticky and overwhelming feeling that rested deep in your womb as he slowly fucked his seed into you, the taste of iron seeping into your mouth. 

He looked apologetic as his thumb swiped away the bead of blood forming on the vermillion of your freshly busted lip, but you had no heart to be angry when you met his glowing and tired eyes. There was a tremble to his arms as he effectively collapsed on top of you, trapping you under his weight. Your heartbeat was steady in his ear, your fingers tangling in his mussed hair. You could practically feel his entire body relax under your touch, hear his breathing slow.

“You don’t intend to sleep like this, do you?” You cringed at how hoarse you sounded. 

“I’m never opposed to this if it’s with you.” He countered, catching your wrist and pressing a soft kiss to your palm. “But I should clean you up.” 

It was a hollowing feeling, the loss of his dick that had been seated so firmly within your walls that you subconsciously clenched around nothing. You watched in silent surprise as a trail of fluids weeped from your used cunt and spilled onto the bed, a sense of abject horror striking as you caught the burning gaze of your lover locked onto the sight as well. You clamped your legs shut, shrieking as he easily pried you apart once more, his fingers scooping the viscous liquid back up and pressing it back into your pussy as you hissed at the sensation.

All at once he grabbed your ankles, dragging your hips to the edge of the bed. You propped onto your elbows, staring down his re-hardened cock that lay hot, heavy, and twitching against your hips before flickering up to his flushed cheeks.

 “I'm sorry, baby, let me indulge in you just a bit longer.” 

Rey, 2023

[ewanmitchellcrumbs]

And one more 😍😍💗💗

May I please request Cersei x reader with Dacryphilia?

eeee, thank you for this! Always happy to write about our lioness.

Warnings: Dacryphilia, orgasm denial, fingering, spanking. Words: ~900

Author's note: No gods, no masters, no tag lists. Only scabs community label fics. If you find yourself tempted to slap a label on this, please block me instead.

You gasp, a shiver rolling through you, as your body tenses and spasms, falling apart around the Lannister Queen's fingers as she lays between your legs.

She is quick to withdraw them, leaving you to clench around nothing. She rises, sitting back on her haunches and regards you coldly with a tilt of her head.

It's only then in your pleasure drunk haze that you realise you've accidentally reached your peak. She had explicitly instructed you not to do so without her permission.

You draw in a shuddering breath, shame rolling over you like a wave of Dornish heat, and begin to stammer your apologies.

"I-I am sorry...so sorry, Your Grace. I did not mean to, I know I wasn't supposed to, I-"

"You are beginning to irritate me." Cersei cuts you off, her voice smooth as silk.

She is ethereal as she kneels above you. A light sheen of perspiration clings to her smooth skin. Her waves of long, flaxen hair obscure her breasts from your view, and in the glow of the candlelight she looks like the Maiden herself.

It is a stark contrast to the fury that you see burning in her bright green eyes, a predatory hunger that both terrifies and excites you.

You know that the Queen's marriage to King Robert is an unhappy one, and you have heard the ugly rumours that spread around the Red Keep with regard to the nature of her relationship with her brother, Ser Jaime. You have been her lady's maid for more than a year now, it would be impudent not to take notice of the matters that ail her.

You are not quite sure how your relationship with her evolved into something more, it seemed to have happened out of nowhere. One morning, six months ago, you'd entered her quarters to help ready her for the day, and she'd been reclining in the bath in front of the fireplace. Her eyes had sought yours and she'd pointedly stood, watching closely as your gaze drifted over the wet curves of her body. She'd beckoned you over with a crook of her finger, and you'd regularly found yourself in her bed ever since.

Cersei wasn't necessarily cruel to you, but she wasn't a gentle lover either. You suspected she used you as a means to vent her frustrations at the political disputes she often found herself at the centre of.

She is a lioness toying with her prey, seeking release between your thighs. She delights in her ability to make you sob with every torturous touch and playful denial, tracing your tear tracks with dexterous fingers and smiling in satisfaction at the wetness that lines your lashes.

You are well aware that it is folly to allow this to continue, a flagrant abuse of her power, yet you cannot find it in yourself to give her up. You aren't sure she'd let you. The scent of almond oil that clings to her hair and pulse points is intoxicating, the taste of Arbor Gold upon her lips makes you dizzy with every feverish kiss. She brings you to the apex of your pleasure faster and more skilfully than any man you've ever coupled with. So you allow her your tears and your dignity.

You can feel the familiar burn around your waterline threatening to spill over as you lay there now. You know she wants to push you to the point where it does.

"You will not have release until I grant it, is that understood?" She'd commanded earlier that evening, pushing you back onto the bed once you'd discarded your gown.

You'd nodded fervently, eager to obey your Queen, but the way her fingers had worked so expertly inside of you had made it impossible to hold back, and so now you were utterly at her mercy.

You are certain that she'd done this on purpose, set you up to fail so that she had an excuse to punish you, and you find yourself wondering what grievance from her day she'll be taking out on you tonight.

"So pretty when you cry." She coos, stroking your cheek, a gesture that's almost tender.

She withdraws, leaning over the side of the bed and reappears with a black leather paddle in her hands. She smirks as your eyes widen.

"On all fours for me, like a good little bitch." Cersei orders wickedly.

"Your Grace, please, have mercy." You whine.

She huffs softly through her nose, rolling her eyes playfully. "I suggest you pray to the Mother for that. I've none to give you. I shan't ask again."

You do as you're told, rolling over and supporting your weight on shaking arms and legs. Jolting in surprise when her palm smooths softly over the curve of your rear, you inhale sharply, bracing yourself for impact.

"This might hurt a little." She purrs. "But I'm sure you know that."

The crack of the paddle smacking your bare flesh echoes off of the vaulted ceiling, as stinging pain blossoms in its wake. Hot, wet tears trail down your cheeks. This is the price you pay when you allow a lioness to make you her plaything.

[podartists]

Dignity and Impudence | Maud Earl (1864-1943)

[crystalskiesandcherrywine]

Feyd Rautha Harkonnen x a bodyguard he did not ask for

Feyd Rautha was not a particularly patient or obedient man. His skills as a fighter earned him a reputation of a ruthless combat machine, someone who knew no fatigue in battle. The pleasure he found in honing his prowess, regardless of the cost to his surroundings, was well known beyond the lands touched by the infrared sun of his home planet Giedi Prime. 

However, when the family's mentat, Piter de Vries, appeared in his training chamber to inform him about his uncle's request, Feyd knew better than to argue. He owed his uncle a lot and knew that he clearly preferred him to his cousin Glossu Rabban. What Rabban brought in sheer strength, he lacked in political skill. And the fate of House Harkonnen would not be decided by strength alone, they all knew that. 

They crossed the halls swiftly, passing a web of sideways and starecases. Feyd Rautha did not ask, and the Mentat offered no further explanations for the command to appear, which was only sparsely disguised as a request. In the throne room of Baron Vladimir Harkonnen, it was, as always, sparsely lit, the ceilings of the room were so high that they could not be seen in the darkness. As in the rest of the fortress, the harsh environment of Giedi Prime continued inside the building: The walls were kept in shades of gray, the floors lined with dark marble, evincing rather somber and sorrowful thoughts then any musings on relaxation or warmth. Shaping the rocks according to their wishes was a clear sign for the inhabitants of the planet and for any visitor unfortunate enough to find themselves here. 

Upon arrival, his uncle's seat was vacant, only a spider-like animal crouched in the shadow filled corner of the room. However, standing in front of his uncle's seat was something very surprising: a servant,  yet not dressed in the usual roughly woven gray robes, but in a tight-fitting and shiny leather, her back as straight as if she were standing guard. The mysterious figure had no customary collar, but a chrome protector on her shoulders and chest, reflecting the sparse light of the room. Her face was half-turned to him, so he could observe the fine lines of her profile, with sharp cheekbones and full lips. Under her hairband, which held a short veil in place, he guessed a tightly bound braid. 

He almost reached out to her, to consider the addition to the household. With this figure, she is an excellent addition to his pets, he thought, and was pleasantly surprised to receive such a gift from his uncle. "I ask you to refrain from that, my lord" Her voice with full with dignity and clarity that was unbecoming for a servant. The figure did not stir, so he briefly doubted whether she had really spoken. A mocking laugh escaped him 

"Since when do my pets have wants? Just for this impudence, you deserve to be punished" and with a fluid movement, he reached for the knife at his hip, only to have it just as precisely parried. The reaction, as unexpected as it was, only spurred him on further. Through every move he felt a spark of the excitement ignite In him.With a predatory gaze, he glanced up and down her body 

"Oh, I didn't know the pet was in the mood for play" He grinned, revealing his black teeth. However, the woman blocked every further attack of his, until the tip of her knife penetrated his shield and stopped just millimeters before his skin. In disbelief, he looked at the red-flaring shield at the breached spot. 

"I see you have gotten acquainted with each other," Baron Vladimir Harkonnen floated into the room, black spheres following him, emitting a slight buzzing sound. The Baron's body was becoming more and more like one of these spheres, round and voluminous. In a matter of seconds, the woman let her blade drop and her weapons found their way back to her holster. Feyd's blade, however, still aimed at her throat. In his defiant eyes, an unspoken question. 

„My dear Nephew Feyd, I want you to meet your bodyguard. You are the future of this planet and if it's up to me, of the known universe. With the journeys to Kaitain and Arrakis, I will leave nothing to chance. Feyd felt the bitter taste of bile and anger fill his mouth, his ice-blue eyes directed at the completely superfluous guard, while her gaze fixed on his uncle. 

„No warrior in the known universe is my equal. I certainly don't need protection, and even less so from her" His words were like poison arrows 

„And yet she just effortlessly penetrated your shield," his uncle laughed, the sounds like sharp bubbles in his oil bath. "Effortlessly" Feyd almost hissed.

"You are dismissed, I do not require your services" He said with as much pride as he could summon through the anger raging in his mind and body.

“My services were summoned by the esteemed Baron Vladimir. As long as he does not dismiss me, I stay where I am." For the first time, their eyes met, his blue against her dark green. So much defiance would have been allowed neither to a servant nor to a pet. "Piter de Vries, please show Lady Margot Fenring to her quarters," said the Baron, and only then did it become apparent that the mentat had never left the room. Feyd believed he detected a hint of a smug smile on his lips, but he was mentally too busy devising a plan to get rid of this new acquaintance. 

to be continued....

@afewfantasies :)

[subzeroparade]

crawled out of the brainrot hole (that your fics sparta-kicked me into) just to tell you that your writing is ASTOUNDING, it's like a merengue roll after being fed hardtacks.

i hope you know your ao3 page has most excellent works I've read in a while, even if i have to equip myself with translators and dictionary since english isn't my first language lmao

especially the way you flesh out Maria, ohhhh the woman that she is, a single thank you wouldn't describe my gratitude for charactering her this well !! and, if I won't be impudent, could i ask for a few headcanons you have for the lady? 😇♡

Thank you anon! No one has ever compared my work to merengue before (◍•ᴗ•◍) And thank you for making an effort to read them in a second language, too - I know how much extra dedication that can take, and I appreciate it <3

Glad my version of Maria resonates with you - she fills a kind of unintentional meta role for me, where even if she appears briefly, there is a self-reflexivity she engenders that makes her almost the voice of a Greek tragedy's chorus. She spends a lot of time telling the characters what they already know (but have not come to terms with), and reminding them of the consequences of their actions. I think she fulfils a Cassandra role for me, too, in the sense that I imagine her to be the only significant character who vocally objects to the Church’s actions and is very clear-eyed about the disaster they are courting - only to remain unheard and disregarded until it’s too late.  

Most of my headcanons for her have found their way into my fics already (and you can read my take on her as Gehrman’s ward and significance vis-a-vis the Doll here; my stance has not really changed). If I were to continue writing her, I’d probably want to explore her decision to leave Byrgenwerth, along with Gehrman, and join the Church - her reasons, her justification, how she balances her obligation and deference for Gehrman as her teacher vs her doubts and lingering mistrust of Laurence and his ability to steer the ship. Like my version of Micolash, she is deeply affected by what happens at the cove - but while Micolash spends the rest of his life chasing that epiphany, Maria is haunted by her need to atone, to wash her hands of it. She does not ask to work with the patients of the Research Hall, she demands it - and she uses that position to lessen, as well as she can, the suffering of those mercilessly used by the Church and the Choir as a means to an end, as the hamlet was by Byrgenwerth. (and to a degree, her atonement worked - she arguably has the least gruesome "punishment" in the Nightmare, and in a sense acts as a perpetual guardian for this purgatory-esque version of the hamlet).

I don’t think she is generous or magnanimous with her love and regard - rather I think she is diligent and discerning and extremely reserved. So in contrast to my version of Ludwig, for example, who is driven by a (sometimes naive) sense of this is the right thing to do, Maria acts out of necessity. It is the right thing to do but specifically because the alternative is unimaginable, and inhuman. In my work she’s the product of a failed political alliance between Cainhurst and a lesser nation-state, so she’s been raised to a certain point to understand what it is to be responsible for people, and the difference between having subjects and actually protecting them. She’s also on the receiving end of Yharnam’s canonically brutal xenophobia, so I imagine she’s very aware the world around her is senselessly cruel and driven by fear, and she acts as best she can not to exacerbate that, or succumb to it. I think, finally, that only when she realises the Church is reproducing the tragedy of the hamlet a thousand times over - and there’s nothing they can do to stop it - does she decide she’d rather die than have a hand in that again. If you've read my fics, then you know affording her the agency and dignity of having made that decision is an important and recurring theme.  

Ty for the ask! Here are some colourful versions of her as she appears in my last work, Variation on the Word Sleep. 

[you-have-made-a-fatal-error]

Warnings at Waverly Academy art part II of IV

1- Fleissig/Appliquée by Albert Anker, 1886 2- Shoeing by Edwin Henry Landseer, 1844 3- Fruit and Flowers by Paul Theodor van Brussel, 1789 4- A Farm in the Sunlight by Meindert Hobbema, 1668 5- Dignity and Impudence by Edwin Henry Lanseer, 1839 6- The Scissors Grinder by Eastman Johnson, 1870 7- The Belated Kid by William Morris Hunt, 1854-57 8- Playing card design by C.F.A. Voysey, 1882-1913 9- Pinkie by Thomas Lawrence, 1794

3 is also in mhm, stfd and fin; 8 is also in mhm on the book in abby's trunk

[microcosme11]

Napoleon at his worst!

General Thiébault goes to court and witnesses this ugly scene in 1810...yikes:

I was in the gaming room at the end of the rooms devoted to receptions; the empress played her part; and while so many kings, archdukes, princes, foreigners of the highest rank, and so many illustrious Frenchmen, followed the Emperor with their eyes and watched his slightest movements, he exchanged a few words with one, honored another with a nod, went from one gaming table to another, and addressed the ladies in words that were more piquant than gallant.

Having made his rounds, finding himself near the door which separated the gaming room from the drawing-room which preceded it, he crossed the threshold, and instantly an immense procession rushed after him. Waddling, he arrived in the center of the salon, stopped, crossed his arms over his chest, stared at the floor six feet in front of him and did not move. The kings, the Archduke Ferdinand, uncle of the Empress, and the other eminent personages who followed, stopped immediately; some drew back, others stepped aside, all close together, and a rather large circle formed around the Emperor, of which he occupied the center in an immobility that everyone imitated, in a silence that nothing interrupted. We began by avoiding even looking at each other; little by little we raised our eyes and looked around us. A few more moments, and our exchanged glances took on such a questioning character that everyone seemed to be wondering what this stage game was preparing: a tacit question, which, in the presence of so many foreigners, made everyone French feel uneasy. Indeed such a sudden meditation, as bizarre as it was out of place, could, for three or four minutes, be attributed on the part of the Emperor to the need to realize an important thought which he had unexpectedly been seized with; but after five, six, seven, eight minutes, no one was in a condition to make sense of it; and yet it remained evident that with a haughty and superb master, at a moment when it pleased him to create so singular a spectacle, it was best to do nothing. 

Unfortunately, Marshal Masséna, who was in the first rank, and behind whom I had placed myself, judged otherwise; I was even convinced that this man, who on the battlefield had such a happy inspiration, such a sure eye, but who retained none of his advantages at court, had thought he was doing Napoleon a service by offering him a natural way of ending a ridiculous scene, and, in its kind, the most ridiculous that I have seen in my life; he did not understand that by providing an offended chief a means of mortifying him, he was getting him out of trouble, but by substituting cruelty for [ridiculousness?]. Consequently, while no one in the world was moving, or dreaming of moving, he left his place, entered the circle which an evil genius seemed to have traced for him, to go there to seek an affront; then, with slow steps advanced towards the Emperor. Astonishment and curiosity showed on all faces; mine could only express fear; the wait, however, was not long; for hardly a few words, said too softly to be heard, had been uttered by the Marshal, when, without raising or averting his eyes, without making a movement, the Emperor articulated in a voice of thunder: “What are you doing?” This old marshal, who despite his glory and his dignities had just been humiliated in front of the whole of Europe, instead of leaving immediately and returning home to hide his shame, returned to his place without replying and, which completed my confoundment, regained it by stepping backwards. Never have I felt more mortified, never has the despot appeared to me in Napoleon with more arrogance and impudence; for it was gratuitously cruel to insult France with one of her oldest and most illustrious defenders. As for Napoleon, after this prize awarded for such great services, he continued his statue scene for a few more moments; then, as if emerging from a dream, he raised his head, uncrossed his arms, cast an examining glance at everything around him, turned around without saying a word to anyone and went back into the game room. At a sign, the Empress threw down the cards and rose; all games ceased and everyone was on their feet. Passing in front of Marie-Louise, he said to her in a rather dry tone: "Allons, Madame..." and continued to walk, while she followed him three paces behind him. As soon as he approached the door of the interior apartments, this door opened, and, the moment the Empress had passed it, it closed behind them.

Mémoires du général Baron Thiébault / publiés sous les auspices de sa fille Mlle. Claire Thiébault, d'après le manuscrit original par Fernand Calmettes, c.1 v.4

hathitrust

[the-cricket-chirps]

Edwin Henry Landseer

Dignity and Impudence

1839

[blackswaneuroparedux]

We fly, but we have not 'conquered' the air. Nature presides in all her dignity, permitting us the study and the use of such of her forces as we may understand. It is when we presume to intimacy, having been granted only tolerance, that the harsh stick fall across our impudent knuckles and we rub the pain, staring upward, startled by our ignorance.

- Beryl Markham, West with the Night

[nicknumber]

The Light Side of London III – Impudence and Dignity by Tom Browne

[contentment-of-cats]

For admiral-arelami - Ba’kif/Pyrondi

@admiral-arelami

I hope that you enjoy your requested fic!

~

Ba’kif - he still cannot think of himself as Patriarch Labaki - is no stranger to marriage. As one of the Blood, he has done his duty to the bloodline long ago before he was promoted to general and had to leave spouses and children behind. As Humans say, he walked the walk instead of talking the talk. All of his babes are grown, many with children of their own, some followed him into the CEDF, others to the UAG, more into the Stybla economic engine of trade and shipbuilding. He’s advised many, mentored more, and now heads the Stybla since his retirement.

So, courting a fierce Human warrior ought to be a simple matter. 

It isn’t.

Il’yana has her own family, of which she sees herself as head. There are the demands of her culture, the demands of her military rank, and her Chimaera shipkin. Labaki has been courting her steadily, carefully, and is mindful of her dignity and ferocity. In her view, she is a woman with many wyf and clanmates and she must care for them. Thrawn is mentoring her, Hammerly, Yve, and Agral for command-line, and Ba’kif approves. 

If he’s being honest, he fell in love with her the moment she shot a grenade at him, defending an injured Thrawn and facilitating her shipkins��� escape from those she thought meant Thrawn harm. The warrior fled once the vessel carrying them Thrawn launched. Il’yana fell after being shot and missing a wild leap - almost to her death. He tried to comfort her then, sending her into coldsleep with murmured words she could not understand. In her recovery and hibernation sickness, he could not stay away from her. In her delirium she would throw punches at him, hallucinate, relive events of unparalleled horror. Ba’kif would swaddle her in her bedding, then hold her fast, even rock and sing to her - easing her, calming her, purring her back to sleep.

He brings his issues to Thrawn. After all, Thrawn is not only her superior officer, but among the rank of Ilyana’s spouses and shipkin. Not all Humans have just one, though it is prevalent and enforced by Imperial law - to which lip service is given and then otherwise ignored as foolishness. Thrawn listens, and asks for time to think about this and formulate a strategy to make that last wild leap - merging the Chimaera family with the Stybla.

It is some days later that he walks with Thrawn through the building called the Chimaera Nest, prodding him for his strategy. Thrawn, in the way of such things, is unhelpful. They come to a hatchway and Thrawn speaks - finally.

“However, after consideration and discussion, I have come to the conclusion that the simplest strategy is the best one to undertake.”

Ba’kif is well aware that he’s positively testy by this point - a pusheen annoyed to his limit by a kit who needs a scruffing. “And that is-”

The door opens and several things happen at once, all of them unexpected. The first is Thrawn’s hands planting on Ba’kif’s shoulder bladed. The second is Thrawn’s foot on his ass, using main force to shove him through the hatchway. The third is the hatchway slamming shut and locking behind him.

That impudent little bastard.

Ba’kif rounds on the doorway, reaching for his comlink and rasping, “When I get out of this room, and I assure you that I will, and once I lay my hands on you, we will discuss things at length and in detail, Mitth’raw’nuruodo.”

And to his ears comes the sound of a mirthful Human.

It is the sound of her laughter. He has it memorized.

The room is one of the garden rooms, populated with plants and adjusted to the climate of human homeworlds. It’s cool here, the room filled with the scents of boreal forest. When he turns, Il’yana is all he sees. Not in her uniform, or the casual clothing of home, but the clothing of her origin - an embroidered tunic and leggings, beaded ornaments, and a covered basket at her feet. 

“He said to trust his strategy. I had no idea that ‘push and run like hell’ was a strategy.”

“He cannot run fast or far enough that I cannot lay my hands upon him, Il’yana.” He has not been this struck by anyone in many years. and Ba’kif chides himself. “I take it you were not in on this.”

“I had my guesses.” Cocking her head, the dainty Human looks up at him with her strange brown eyes, a warm and sweet musk teasing his senses. “Ba’kif, you have been most chivalrous.”

“You are a warrior, a leader, a woman of Family. I would not give you less than my greatest respect.”

“I fired a grenade at you.”

“I choose to find it part of your charms.” He is not breathless at his age. Certainly not. 

“I remember what you said to me, even if I did not understand it at the time.” She is right under his nose, barely up to his collar bone. Ba’kif has held her in his arms many times through her recovery. “But as Yissa says, it is time to cut to the chase.”

And then she goes up on her toes to kiss him and the galaxy stops spinning.

Yis’sah told him that until Il’yana forms that emotional attachment, nothing else will happen. His arms go around her, lift her easily, and Il’yana melts on his tongue like ice cream. The heat of her mouth, the warmth of her even through her clothing makes his blood hot, and her mating musk blooms for him in an extravagant display. 

“Over there.” The kiss breaks and she’s breathless, cheeks pink and eyes alight. “There’s a tent.”

“I’m still going to throttle him.” Ba’kif carries her and the basket to a small clearing and indeed there is a tent, piled with warmth and softness. “After I bless him.”

He lays her down in warmth and softness, watching her hair fall loose from her hood, teasing open the fastenings of her tunic and having words for the two extra layers of clothing under it. Poor thin-skinned Humans are sensitive to the cold. A hesitation allows Il’yana to carry out an attack on his robes, and infiltrate her hands. If she’s going to be peeled, so is he. They are warriors and do not flinch from their own or each other’s scars. Yes, he has seen her bare - getting Humans over their body taboos hurt his brain - but now he can fill his eyes with her. It pleases him that Il’yana likes what she sees, too.

And then she reaches for the little basket.

“Will you be wyf with me? Lean on me and I will lean on you? Walk beside me in our lives? Let me care for you as you have cared for me with an open heart?”

“I will, Il’yana.” That she would offer him nothing less leaves a pang next to his heart. He will not be asked to leave her for his duty. 

The basket holds a small cake, and he recognizes Yis’sah’s specialty. Beside it is bottle of something green and a cup. 

“Life holds bitter and sweet.” A small bite of sweet cake, a little sip of the bitter green liquor and his body relaxes, warming even more. “Let us share both.”

“Two families made one. Two people joined through all that comes. May our hearts and minds be joined. So let it be.”

A bite of cake offered to her lips, a small sip of the wine. “So let it be.”

Ba’kif tastes the wine from her lips as he eases Yana down into their nest, peeling the last layer from her. 

~

A man who can see being in the cross-hairs of a grenade launcher as charming is charming in turn. Ba’kif was there when she went under, there when she woke up. From her hibernation-sickness delirium Ilyana remembers a deep, rumbling voice singing to her. Remembers being held in Ba’kif’s arms as sleep came and left her. 

It always takes a while for her.

The connection, the growth, the trust. If it’s not there, then no spark kindles for her. It was that way with Yissa, Vanto, Thrawn, and now Ba’kif. 

Oh, how he kindles her as she wrestles his underclothes off. Yes, she’s seen him as naked as a peeled hard-cooked egg. This is different. It always is. There is a lot of him. Big everywhere. Oh, but when he holds her close she can drown in his kiss, hold to him even as desire roars through her. Moreover, it seems that he is holding to her Pillow Princess status and as her first orgasm rings through her on his fingers, Il’yana is shamelessly loud about it. When it ebbs, she is soft, dreamy, open and oh burning for him again.

“Delicious.” He tastes her from his fingers, then moves in to feast. 

Chiss men are all about making a woman climax. It takes work to get that ova to pop. Admittedly, Ilyana is working from a small sample size and bias besides but-

“Yes Ba’kif please oh please I need i i aiiiiiiiiiiii!” 

When she’s melted across the blankets, wanting and wanton, he moves over her and into her. Ilyana’s breath hitches at the opening, the stretch of it as her back arches, taking Ba’kif’s cock into her. So much and so good she could burst from pleasure and he needs to know she’s not delicate and she won’t break and her legs barely wrap around him, pulling him in and pulling her into his thrust. Ilyana locks her legs around him, riding the crest as he starts to flare within her to find his own peak and flood her. 

Chiss men are simply flattened by orgasm. The intensity and duration leaves Ba’kif atop her, smushed into the bed as she strokes the back of his neck, pressing kisses wherever she can reach. Ba’kif rolls to his back, taking her in his arms and holding her. A deep, rumbling purr weighs her eyes closed as Bakif pulls the quilts over them both.

[vespersposts]

Burning the midnight oil

Happy birthday to dear @haithamuse 🥂🎂

Thank you for thinking of "The lover's journey" event.

I love collaborations, I especially enjoy reading each author's selfships and dreaming a little.

If there are blog friends among the authors, it's even more fun (yes, @the-chronicles-of-a-bookworm and @melancholicautumnfever I'm talking about you). 🫶

My entry is an oneshot, slice of life with lots of fluff and some cuddling turning a bit more affectionate, there are lots of innuendo, but no smut. 👀

Best wishes again to the birthday girl! 💐

Until next time!

V.

-> more knb stories here 🏀

When it snows, only one thing is certain: you will be late.

You can feel the cold stinging your nose, your cheeks and every inch of your uncovered skin. It doesn't matter. The sight of that little white wonder will always be one of your favourites, even if it delays your train by an hour and forces you to say good night on the phone.

"What's another hour, I could wait all night for you, babe!" he yawns, and you immediately picture him sprawled out on the couch in the most uncomfortable position his six-foot frame would allow, an impudent expression on his face underlining the naivety of your suggestion. Daiki Aomine, your better half, the sexiest man on the planet, your only reason for living, who can't resist Morpheus? Pfft!  Have you gone mad? You have been working too hard lately, and it shows when you are at odds with his word.

"Then it must be that my brain has frozen along with my body! " you chuckle, knowing that behind this wall of closure lies a simple desire to fall asleep with you, in the silence of your bedroom. His voice catches your attention, as you see the train coming and you are about to end the call.

"Once home, I'm going to warm you up properly, in all the ways you like best, baby angel!" he says casually, sure that you'll be blushing like crazy on the other end of the line.

The way he makes you feel will never be something you will be able to downplay.

"I'm glad you're entertained!" you snort at his giggles, trying not to lose your dignity in front of the ticket controller, who looks at you with mild curiosity.

Then, you realise that your thoughts are already wandering through your memories.

Now that his magic has reached every knot in your body, your mind brings back his smile.

That mischievous grin on his cheeky, adorable face. 

The one he gives you every time he teases you with one of his tricks. 

The same one he wore when he asked for your phone number, after he'd waited for you to say goodbye all your friends after lessons. That swaggering expression he put on, the night of your first date, commenting on every girl you met, so much so, that you wondered if you had misread his intentions. That annoying mask, which fell off when you admitted that you felt uncomfortable and walked away, leaving him alone in front of the fridge in the konbini, where you were supposed to get an ice cream. 

Back then, he had caught up with you instantly, grabbing your hand at the red light of the big crossing to the metro. It has been there, in the middle of the flow of commuters on their way home, that he gave you your first kiss and his heart.

When you finally step inside your apartment and take off your gloves, you realise how cold you are. Your hands are red and icy, as are your cheeks and nose. You leave your shoes and bags at the entrance, walking slowly down the corridor. That quiet welcome has one and only meaning.

Morpheus won. 

You cannot help but be a little dazed when you get to the bedroom and find him asleep. His head on your pillow, his legs slightly open, his light breathing mixed with a few causal sounds from his parted lips. You move closer, knowing that you can only caress him with your gaze, since you are the same temperature as the ice that covers the streets. But Daiki is attractive, so attractive, too attractive. He's also being his usual careless self, leaving the top of his pyjamas on his pillow, but his body temperature is close to that of lava, and he doesn't care. Not bad, because you don't even have to bother opening the drawers. Very bad, because the rhythmic rise and fall of his broad chest, his muscular arms and his big hand let open over his strong abs, clouds your senses for a few minutes.

It is only the threat of sneezing that makes you abandon your malicious intention of waking him up to remind him of what he'd promised.

With this thought to keep you company, you had forced yourself to take a hot shower, and now you are walking on tiptoe so as not to wake the sleeping handsome prince. Perhaps he was not as asleep as he would have you believe, for in those few minutes he managed to slip under the covers that you were now pulling off.

His pillow is softer than yours, and smells of the shampoo you bought him, which he always complains about, but always uses. His pyjama shirt is big, comfortable and dangerously loose, just the way he loves it, but Daiki plays dead, clearly wanting to continue the game you started on the phone.

If he's a natural tease, you're even worse.

There's one thing you know he’s not keen on : kisses on the forehead, exactly what you're going to give him. You move slowly, unhurriedly: your left hand near his pillow, your other hand on the mattress beyond his chest, one leg between his: curled on him but away from him, that’s how you press your warm, supple lips between his eyebrows for a fleeting moment. You are so close, but all the boy can feel is the cloud of perfume from your shower gel and the soft caress of your hair on his skin. His eyes dart as you withdraw, lingering on your cleavage for a few seconds to register how scantily clad you are, devouring you as you press your leg further against his thigh, biting your lip as his big hands cradle your hips. Ten long, strong, shameless fingers press you down on him, his palms flat against your back, tracing your spine so that his belly kisses your womb, then rising and locking you to him. 

"Gotcha!" he chuckles as he moves closer to you, gently lifting your head to look you straight in the eye. "I've been thinking about this all night " he admits, running his right hand down your chest, enjoying the look of astonishment on your face as he brushes his thumb over your nipple, which instantly hardens, making it easy for you to respond. "Poor baby Daiki" you tease him, slowly moving your leg between his , caressing his clothed manhood with your soft bare skin, matching the thrill of intimacy with a soft moan. "Don't make me wait any longer" he whispers, closing the words over your mouth, playing with your lips, gradually increasing the pressure of his talented tongue, pulling away to show himself, brazenly needy, sure that what makes you tremble against his warm skin is pure desire. 

"I won't " you promise, smiling softly. 

Your lips and breath meet again. 

Your body adapts to his, your hair thrown over your shoulder, your borrowed nightgown unbuttoned by his naughty hand as his lips restore the warmth lost with your clothes. You run your fingers through his dark hair and the kisses cease, his eyes rise from your collarbones to your face and he smiles, hiding his head on your heart.

"I've missed you so much" he whispers, as if apologising for his need to have you, as if a part of him is still afraid that you won't recognise his feelings, that you'll just see him as an horny boy. 

"I love you too" you smile, welcoming his lips on yours with delight, closing your eyes to let that sense of electric heat pass through you to make you one with him.

The dark, cold night is left behind, as you're burning the midnight oil.

[auburniivenus]

[  STRIPTEASE  ]  *  my muse gives your muse a show as they take off their clothes. // the show is him taking his shirt off in classic yakuza style. (might or might be getting into a fight with random thugs instead)

She   exerts   every   fiber   of   her   being   to   maneuver   around   the   fringes   of   conflict,   endeavoring   to   belave   unperturbed   by   the   upheaval   that   seems   to   gravitate   towards   her   with   an   implacable,   inconspicuous   pull.   Yet,   there   are   those,   empowered   by   a   misplaced   sense   of   impudence,   who   dare   to   infringe   the   reverence   of   her   serenity,   possessing   delusions   of   claiming   victories   that   lie   well   beyond   the   realm   of   their   grasp,   her   physique   and   her   affection.   These   divine   offerings,   along   with   countless   others,   are   fervently   guarded,   intended   exclusively   for   the   man   who   has   now   emerged   as   a   formidable   shield   between   her   and   the   imminent   threat   of   the   interlopers.   "Ichiban."   Utters,   her   voice   a   whisper   of   marvel   at   the   alacrity   of   his   emergence,   as   if   he   had   become   a   seraphic   guardian   who   has   silently   vowed   to   protect   her   through   eternity.

Inoue's   eyes   are   absorbed   as   he   divests   himself   of   his   upper   garments,   unveiling   a   canvas   of   skin   imprinted   by   an   incredibly   detailed   tattoo   that   extends   across   his   broad   dorsum.   This   vibrant   mosaic   of   ink   composes   a   story   that   permanently   connects   him   to   a   bygone,   nebulous   past.   The   sight,   breathtaking   in   its   unadulterated   splendor   and   complexity,   magnetizes   her   in   a   moment   of   stupendous   enchantment,   her   gaze   captivated   by   the   meticulous   technique   and   rich,   deep   palette   of   the   ink   that   adorns   his   cutaneous.   In   this   suspended   moment,   she   is   drawn   into   a   trance,   her   soul   impacted   by   the   immense   exquisiteness   and   dignity   of   it.   "So   this   is   the   visage   of   a   true   yakuza.   You’re   majestic,   Kasuga."   Declares,   her   words   steeped   in   admiration   and   a   touch   of   wonder.   Her   statement,   infused   with   a   depth   of   admiration   and   a   hint   of   discovery,   echoes   between   them.

@ichihero

[thesynaxarium]

Today we also celebrate the Holy Hierarch Flavian the Confessor, Patriarch of Constantinople. Saint Flavian occupied the patriarchal throne of Constantinople under the holy Emperor Theodosius the Younger (408-450) and his sister the holy Empress Pulcheria (September 10). At first he was a presbyter and caretaker of church-vessels in the cathedral. He became Patriarch after the death of holy Patriarch Proclus (November 20). During this time, various disturbances and heresies threatened church unity. In the year 448, Saint Flavian convened a local Council at Constantinople to examine the heresy of Eutyches, which admitted only one nature (the divine) in the Lord Jesus Christ. Persisting in his error, the heretic Eutyches was excommunicated from the Church and deprived of dignity, but Eutyches had a powerful patron in the person of Chrysathios, a eunuch close to the emperor. Through intrigue Chrysathios brought Bishop Dioscorus of Alexandria over to the side of Eutyches, and obtained permission from the emperor to convene a church council at Ephesus, afterwards known as the “Robber Council.” Dioscorus presided at this council, gaining the acquittal of Eutyches and the condemnation of Patriarch Flavian by threats and force. Saint Flavian was fiercely beaten up during the sessions of this council by impudent monks led by a certain Barsumas. Even the impious president of the Robber Council, the heretic Dioscorus, took part in these beatings. After this heavy chains were put upon Saint Flavian, and he was sentenced to banishment at Ephesus. The Lord, however, ended his further suffering, by sending him his death (+ August 449). The holy Empress Pulcheria withdrew from the imperial court. Soon the intrigues of Chrysathios were revealed. The emperor dismissed him, and restored his sister Saint Pulcheria. Through her efforts, the relics of holy Patriarch Flavian were reverently transferred from Ephesus to Constantinople. May he intercede for us always + Source: https://www.oca.org/saints/lives/2023/02/18/100556-saint-flavian-the-confessor-patriarch-of-constantinople (at Constantinople - Κωνσταντινούπολη) https://www.instagram.com/p/CoxjaLzrCwT/?igshid=NGJjMDIxMWI=

[thelonelynightwatcher]

"In the evening it was found, according to the predetermination of Mrs. Grant and her sister, that after making up the whist-table there would remain sufficient for a round game, and everybody being as perfectly complying and without a choice as on such occasions they always are, speculation was decided on almost as soon as whist; and Lady Bertram soon found herself in the critical situation of being applied to for her own choice between the games, and being required either to draw a card for whist or not. She hesitated. Luckily Sir Thomas was at hand.

“What shall I do, Sir Thomas? Whist and speculation; which will amuse me most?”

Sir Thomas, after a moment’s thought, recommended speculation. He was a whist player himself, and perhaps might feel that it would not much amuse him to have her for a partner.

“Very well,” was her ladyship’s contented answer; “then speculation, if you please, Mrs. Grant. I know nothing about it, but Fanny must teach me.”

Here Fanny interposed, however, with anxious protestations of her own equal ignorance; she had never played the game nor seen it played in her life; and Lady Bertram felt a moment’s indecision again; but upon everybody’s assuring her that nothing could be so easy, that it was the easiest game on the cards, and Henry Crawford’s stepping forward with a most earnest request to be allowed to sit between her ladyship and Miss Price, and teach them both, it was so settled; and Sir Thomas, Mrs. Norris, and Dr. and Mrs. Grant being seated at the table of prime intellectual state and dignity, the remaining six, under Miss Crawford’s direction, were arranged round the other. It was a fine arrangement for Henry Crawford, who was close to Fanny, and with his hands full of business, having two persons’ cards to manage as well as his own; for though it was impossible for Fanny not to feel herself mistress of the rules of the game in three minutes, he had yet to inspirit her play, sharpen her avarice, and harden her heart, which, especially in any competition with William, was a work of some difficulty; and as for Lady Bertram, he must continue in charge of all her fame and fortune through the whole evening; and if quick enough to keep her from looking at her cards when the deal began, must direct her in whatever was to be done with them to the end of it.

He was in high spirits, doing everything with happy ease, and preeminent in all the lively turns, quick resources, and playful impudence that could do honour to the game; and the round table was altogether a very comfortable contrast to the steady sobriety and orderly silence of the other.

Twice had Sir Thomas inquired into the enjoyment and success of his lady, but in vain; no pause was long enough for the time his measured manner needed; and very little of her state could be known till Mrs. Grant was able, at the end of the first rubber, to go to her and pay her compliments.

“I hope your ladyship is pleased with the game.”

“Oh dear, yes! very entertaining indeed. A very odd game. I do not know what it is all about. I am never to see my cards; and Mr. Crawford does all the rest.”

“Bertram,” said Crawford, some time afterwards, taking the opportunity of a little languor in the game, “I have never told you what happened to me yesterday in my ride home.” They had been hunting together, and were in the midst of a good run, and at some distance from Mansfield, when his horse being found to have flung a shoe, Henry Crawford had been obliged to give up, and make the best of his way back. “I told you I lost my way after passing that old farmhouse with the yew-trees, because I can never bear to ask; but I have not told you that, with my usual luck—for I never do wrong without gaining by it—I found myself in due time in the very place which I had a curiosity to see. I was suddenly, upon turning the corner of a steepish downy field, in the midst of a retired little village between gently rising hills; a small stream before me to be forded, a church standing on a sort of knoll to my right—which church was strikingly large and handsome for the place, and not a gentleman or half a gentleman’s house to be seen excepting one—to be presumed the Parsonage—within a stone’s throw of the said knoll and church. I found myself, in short, in Thornton Lacey.”

“It sounds like it,” said Edmund; “but which way did you turn after passing Sewell’s farm?”

“I answer no such irrelevant and insidious questions; though were I to answer all that you could put in the course of an hour, you would never be able to prove that it was not Thornton Lacey—for such it certainly was.”

“You inquired, then?”

“No, I never inquire. But I told a man mending a hedge that it was Thornton Lacey, and he agreed to it.”

“You have a good memory. I had forgotten having ever told you half so much of the place.”

Thornton Lacey was the name of his impending living, as Miss Crawford well knew; and her interest in a negotiation for William Price’s knave increased.

“Well,” continued Edmund, “and how did you like what you saw?”

“Very much indeed. You are a lucky fellow. There will be work for five summers at least before the place is liveable.”

“No, no, not so bad as that. The farmyard must be moved, I grant you; but I am not aware of anything else. The house is by no means bad, and when the yard is removed, there may be a very tolerable approach to it.”

“The farmyard must be cleared away entirely, and planted up to shut out the blacksmith’s shop. The house must be turned to front the east instead of the north—the entrance and principal rooms, I mean, must be on that side, where the view is really very pretty; I am sure it may be done. And there must be your approach, through what is at present the garden. You must make a new garden at what is now the back of the house; which will be giving it the best aspect in the world, sloping to the south-east. The ground seems precisely formed for it. I rode fifty yards up the lane, between the church and the house, in order to look about me; and saw how it might all be. Nothing can be easier. The meadows beyond what will be the garden, as well as what now is, sweeping round from the lane I stood in to the north-east, that is, to the principal road through the village, must be all laid together, of course; very pretty meadows they are, finely sprinkled with timber. They belong to the living, I suppose; if not, you must purchase them. Then the stream—something must be done with the stream; but I could not quite determine what. I had two or three ideas.”

“And I have two or three ideas also,” said Edmund, “and one of them is, that very little of your plan for Thornton Lacey will ever be put in practice. I must be satisfied with rather less ornament and beauty. I think the house and premises may be made comfortable, and given the air of a gentleman’s residence, without any very heavy expense, and that must suffice me; and, I hope, may suffice all who care about me.”

Miss Crawford, a little suspicious and resentful of a certain tone of voice, and a certain half-look attending the last expression of his hope, made a hasty finish of her dealings with William Price; and securing his knave at an exorbitant rate, exclaimed, “There, I will stake my last like a woman of spirit. No cold prudence for me. I am not born to sit still and do nothing. If I lose the game, it shall not be from not striving for it.”

The game was hers, and only did not pay her for what she had given to secure it. Another deal proceeded, and Crawford began again about Thornton Lacey.

“My plan may not be the best possible: I had not many minutes to form it in; but you must do a good deal. The place deserves it, and you will find yourself not satisfied with much less than it is capable of. (Excuse me, your ladyship must not see your cards. There, let them lie just before you.) The place deserves it, Bertram. You talk of giving it the air of a gentleman’s residence. That will be done by the removal of the farmyard; for, independent of that terrible nuisance, I never saw a house of the kind which had in itself so much the air of a gentleman’s residence, so much the look of a something above a mere parsonage-house—above the expenditure of a few hundreds a year. It is not a scrambling collection of low single rooms, with as many roofs as windows; it is not cramped into the vulgar compactness of a square farmhouse: it is a solid, roomy, mansion-like looking house, such as one might suppose a respectable old country family had lived in from generation to generation, through two centuries at least, and were now spending from two to three thousand a year in.” Miss Crawford listened, and Edmund agreed to this. “The air of a gentleman’s residence, therefore, you cannot but give it, if you do anything. But it is capable of much more. (Let me see, Mary; Lady Bertram bids a dozen for that queen; no, no, a dozen is more than it is worth. Lady Bertram does not bid a dozen. She will have nothing to say to it. Go on, go on.) By some such improvements as I have suggested (I do not really require you to proceed upon my plan, though, by the bye, I doubt anybody’s striking out a better) you may give it a higher character. You may raise it into a place. From being the mere gentleman’s residence, it becomes, by judicious improvement, the residence of a man of education, taste, modern manners, good connexions. All this may be stamped on it; and that house receive such an air as to make its owner be set down as the great landholder of the parish by every creature travelling the road; especially as there is no real squire’s house to dispute the point—a circumstance, between ourselves, to enhance the value of such a situation in point of privilege and independence beyond all calculation. You think with me, I hope” (turning with a softened voice to Fanny). “Have you ever seen the place?”

Fanny gave a quick negative, and tried to hide her interest in the subject by an eager attention to her brother, who was driving as hard a bargain, and imposing on her as much as he could; but Crawford pursued with “No, no, you must not part with the queen. You have bought her too dearly, and your brother does not offer half her value. No, no, sir, hands off, hands off. Your sister does not part with the queen. She is quite determined. The game will be yours,” turning to her again; “it will certainly be yours.”

“And Fanny had much rather it were William’s,” said Edmund, smiling at her. “Poor Fanny! not allowed to cheat herself as she wishes!”

“Mr. Bertram,” said Miss Crawford, a few minutes afterwards, “you know Henry to be such a capital improver, that you cannot possibly engage in anything of the sort at Thornton Lacey without accepting his help. Only think how useful he was at Sotherton! Only think what grand things were produced there by our all going with him one hot day in August to drive about the grounds, and see his genius take fire. There we went, and there we came home again; and what was done there is not to be told!”

Fanny’s eyes were turned on Crawford for a moment with an expression more than grave—even reproachful; but on catching his, were instantly withdrawn. With something of consciousness he shook his head at his sister, and laughingly replied, “I cannot say there was much done at Sotherton; but it was a hot day, and we were all walking after each other, and bewildered.” As soon as a general buzz gave him shelter, he added, in a low voice, directed solely at Fanny, “I should be sorry to have my powers of planning judged of by the day at Sotherton. I see things very differently now. Do not think of me as I appeared then.”

Sotherton was a word to catch Mrs. Norris, and being just then in the happy leisure which followed securing the odd trick by Sir Thomas’s capital play and her own against Dr. and Mrs. Grant’s great hands, she called out, in high good-humour, “Sotherton! Yes, that is a place, indeed, and we had a charming day there. William, you are quite out of luck; but the next time you come, I hope dear Mr. and Mrs. Rushworth will be at home, and I am sure I can answer for your being kindly received by both. Your cousins are not of a sort to forget their relations, and Mr. Rushworth is a most amiable man. They are at Brighton now, you know; in one of the best houses there, as Mr. Rushworth’s fine fortune gives them a right to be. I do not exactly know the distance, but when you get back to Portsmouth, if it is not very far off, you ought to go over and pay your respects to them; and I could send a little parcel by you that I want to get conveyed to your cousins.”

“I should be very happy, aunt; but Brighton is almost by Beachey Head; and if I could get so far, I could not expect to be welcome in such a smart place as that—poor scrubby midshipman as I am.”

Mrs. Norris was beginning an eager assurance of the affability he might depend on, when she was stopped by Sir Thomas’s saying with authority, “I do not advise your going to Brighton, William, as I trust you may soon have more convenient opportunities of meeting; but my daughters would be happy to see their cousins anywhere; and you will find Mr. Rushworth most sincerely disposed to regard all the connexions of our family as his own.”

“I would rather find him private secretary to the First Lord than anything else,” was William’s only answer, in an undervoice, not meant to reach far, and the subject dropped.

As yet Sir Thomas had seen nothing to remark in Mr. Crawford’s behaviour; but when the whist-table broke up at the end of the second rubber, and leaving Dr. Grant and Mrs. Norris to dispute over their last play, he became a looker-on at the other, he found his niece the object of attentions, or rather of professions, of a somewhat pointed character.

Henry Crawford was in the first glow of another scheme about Thornton Lacey; and not being able to catch Edmund’s ear, was detailing it to his fair neighbour with a look of considerable earnestness. His scheme was to rent the house himself the following winter, that he might have a home of his own in that neighbourhood; and it was not merely for the use of it in the hunting-season (as he was then telling her), though that consideration had certainly some weight, feeling as he did that, in spite of all Dr. Grant’s very great kindness, it was impossible for him and his horses to be accommodated where they now were without material inconvenience; but his attachment to that neighbourhood did not depend upon one amusement or one season of the year: he had set his heart upon having a something there that he could come to at any time, a little homestall at his command, where all the holidays of his year might be spent, and he might find himself continuing, improving, and perfecting that friendship and intimacy with the Mansfield Park family which was increasing in value to him every day. Sir Thomas heard and was not offended. There was no want of respect in the young man’s address; and Fanny’s reception of it was so proper and modest, so calm and uninviting, that he had nothing to censure in her. She said little, assented only here and there, and betrayed no inclination either of appropriating any part of the compliment to herself, or of strengthening his views in favour of Northamptonshire. Finding by whom he was observed, Henry Crawford addressed himself on the same subject to Sir Thomas, in a more everyday tone, but still with feeling.

“I want to be your neighbour, Sir Thomas, as you have, perhaps, heard me telling Miss Price. May I hope for your acquiescence, and for your not influencing your son against such a tenant?”

Sir Thomas, politely bowing, replied, “It is the only way, sir, in which I could not wish you established as a permanent neighbour; but I hope, and believe, that Edmund will occupy his own house at Thornton Lacey. Edmund, am I saying too much?”

Edmund, on this appeal, had first to hear what was going on; but, on understanding the question, was at no loss for an answer.

“Certainly, sir, I have no idea but of residence. But, Crawford, though I refuse you as a tenant, come to me as a friend. Consider the house as half your own every winter, and we will add to the stables on your own improved plan, and with all the improvements of your improved plan that may occur to you this spring.”

“We shall be the losers,” continued Sir Thomas. “His going, though only eight miles, will be an unwelcome contraction of our family circle; but I should have been deeply mortified if any son of mine could reconcile himself to doing less. It is perfectly natural that you should not have thought much on the subject, Mr. Crawford. But a parish has wants and claims which can be known only by a clergyman constantly resident, and which no proxy can be capable of satisfying to the same extent. Edmund might, in the common phrase, do the duty of Thornton, that is, he might read prayers and preach, without giving up Mansfield Park: he might ride over every Sunday, to a house nominally inhabited, and go through divine service; he might be the clergyman of Thornton Lacey every seventh day, for three or four hours, if that would content him. But it will not. He knows that human nature needs more lessons than a weekly sermon can convey; and that if he does not live among his parishioners, and prove himself, by constant attention, their well-wisher and friend, he does very little either for their good or his own.”

Mr. Crawford bowed his acquiescence.

“I repeat again,” added Sir Thomas, “that Thornton Lacey is the only house in the neighbourhood in which I should not be happy to wait on Mr. Crawford as occupier.”

Mr. Crawford bowed his thanks.

“Sir Thomas,” said Edmund, “undoubtedly understands the duty of a parish priest. We must hope his son may prove that he knows it too.”

Whatever effect Sir Thomas’s little harangue might really produce on Mr. Crawford, it raised some awkward sensations in two of the others, two of his most attentive listeners—Miss Crawford and Fanny. One of whom, having never before understood that Thornton was so soon and so completely to be his home, was pondering with downcast eyes on what it would be not to see Edmund every day; and the other, startled from the agreeable fancies she had been previously indulging on the strength of her brother’s description, no longer able, in the picture she had been forming of a future Thornton, to shut out the church, sink the clergyman, and see only the respectable, elegant, modernised, and occasional residence of a man of independent fortune, was considering Sir Thomas, with decided ill-will, as the destroyer of all this, and suffering the more from that involuntary forbearance which his character and manner commanded, and from not daring to relieve herself by a single attempt at throwing ridicule on his cause.

All the agreeable of her speculation was over for that hour. It was time to have done with cards, if sermons prevailed; and she was glad to find it necessary to come to a conclusion, and be able to refresh her spirits by a change of place and neighbour."

Mansfield Park, Jane Austen.