#France is the master of starting rumors about himself | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

royalpain16 · 3 years ago

Text

A Brief History of Princess Diana’s Fiery Family

HADLEY HALL MEARES

JUNE 29, 2021 4:04 PM

According to Tina Brown’s The Diana Chronicles. Indeed, the role of the aristocratic family of Diana, Princess of Wales, for centuries has been that of royal disrupter. This legacy stretches to the 14th century, with their disputed ancestor Hugh Despenser’s alleged torrid affair with King Edward II and Despenser’s eventual brutal execution. Clever, charming, and fiery, much like Diana, her ancestors learned how to play the royal game—and then ripped up the rule book.

“Nearly 300 years on, my father would talk about him with an ashamed, resigned chuckle,” Charles, Earl Spencer, writes in The Spencers: A Personal History of an English Family of the mercurial family blackguard Robert Spencer (1641-1702). While the second earl would secure the Spencers’ status as political power players for centuries, he was also “cunning, supple [and] shameless” with “a restless and mischievous temper, a cold heart, and an abject spirt.”

Sunderland’s ascendancy began in the 1670s when he orchestrated King Charles II’s secret pact with England’s traditional enemy, France. Securing large payments from the French king and court for Charles II and himself, Sunderland was rewarded when he was appointed secretary of state.

After double-crossing Charles II’s illegitimate son, the Duke of Monmouth, Sunderland cleverly insinuated himself with new King James II. He converted to Catholicism to appeal to the very Catholic king, and became one of James II’s closest advisers. But the king, though he valued the brilliant man’s diplomatic skills, was fully aware of Sunderland’s duplicity.

James II finally dismissed Sunderland from service in 1688, and he was later exiled. But in December of that year, James II was deposed by the Glorious Revolution, bringing his daughter Mary and her husband, William, Prince of Orange, (with whom Sunderland had conspired) to the throne.

Again in favor, he was rewarded with the post of Lord Chamberlain before retiring from public life in 1697. “Too much cannot be said of his talents,” one historian noted. “Nor too little of his principles.”

The Boss: Sarah Churchill, Duchess of Marlborough

The daughter of Parliamentarian Richard Jennings and his scandalous wife, Frances, the passionate, brilliant Sarah (1660-1744) started out as a maid of honor in the court of James II. She became the most powerful woman in England, through her magnetic control of the future Queen Anne, a comparative dullard who worshipped her and perhaps became her lover. (You may remember their relationship from the 2018 movie The Favourite, in which Rachel Weisz played Sarah.)

For Sarah, her friendship with Anne was a way to advance her family and her liberal Whig politics, which she shared with her equally powerful husband, the military hero the Duke of Marlborough. “I hated tyranny by nature,” she wrote in one version of her memoir, according to Ophelia Field’s The Favourite: The Life of Sarah Churchill. “I thought mankind was born free, & if Princes were ordained to make their subjects happy; so I had always in me an invincible aversion to slavery, & to flattery.”

In 1700, Sarah arranged the marriage of her distant relation Charles Spencer, the future Third Earl of Sunderland, with her favorite daughter, Anne. Over the next 44 years, she would shape the family fortunes—and gift them with their famed auburn-tinted locks.

According to The Favourite: The Life of Sarah Churchill, with Anne’s accession to the throne in 1702 Sarah reached the peak of her power, racking up virtually every important post in Queen Anne’s suite, dictating cabinet appointments, and encouraging the ire of satirists.

But cracks would soon begin to appear. Queen Anne was naturally inclined to support the royalist Tories and was encouraged in these leanings by a new favorite named Abigail. A vindictive Sarah became a master propagandist, leaking insinuations about their relationship to the press, and allegedly threatening to blackmail Anne over the contents of their highly charged correspondence.

Sarah was finally forced to vacate her royal apartments in 1711, but she was not down for the count. A brilliant businesswoman, she became the richest woman in England, according to Field, controlling her Spencer grandchildren with promises of money and power. Centuries before the modern Diana and Prince Charles wed, Sarah even attempted to marry her favorite granddaughter—Lady Diana Spencer—to the broke Frederick, Prince of Wales, with a promise of 100,000-pound dowry. The plan fell through.

But not all her grandchildren were willing to be manipulated by their formidable matriarch. Sarah claimed her equally tough granddaughter Anne “[deserved] to be burnt,” and she disinherited her grandson Charles, Fifth Earl of Sunderland, which prompted him to write her:

As for putting me out of your will…I neither expected or desired to be in it. I…assure Your Grace that this is the last time I shall ever trouble you by letter or conversation. I am Your Grace’s grandson, Sunderland.

Sarah’s letter back was brutal. “You end that you are my grandson. Which is indeed a very melancholy truth…had you not been my grandson, you would have been in as bad a condition as you deserve to be.” Fitting words from a woman immortalized by Alexander Pope thusly:

Sixty years the World has been her Trade, The wisest Fool much Time has ever made. From loveless youth to unrespected age, No Passion gratify’d except her Rage.

The Star: Georgiana Cavendish, Duchess of Devonshire

From the start there was something special about Georgiana (1757-1806), the coddled daughter of John, First Earl Spencer and his wife, Margaret. The captivating teenager married the sophisticated William, Duke of Devonshire, in 1774, and quickly became a sensation in London’s highest circles. “[The Duchess of Devonshire] effaces all,” Horace Walpole wrote, according to The Devonshires: The Story of a Family and a Nation. “Her youth, figure, flowing good nature, sense…and modest familiarity, make her a phenomenon.”

Georgiana soon found her cold, older husband was not nearly as interested in her as everyone else. Luckily, she had many talents with which to amuse herself. She set fashions of the day, developed her own haughty way of speaking, known as the “Cavendish drawl,” and became dear friends with Marie Antoinette, according to Amanda Foreman’s The Duchess. She was also a successful novelist, and an amateur scientist.

But it was Georgiana’s brilliance as a Whig operative that would turn her into a target of the press. Constantly brainstorming with her friend, George, Prince of Wales, and political soulmate Charles James Fox, she hosted countless summits at her home. Georgiana was, she later wrote, “in the midst of the action,” seeing

“partys rise and fall—friends be united and disunited—the ties of love give way to caprice, to interest, and to vanity…”

Georgiana also worked essentially as a campaign manager for Whig candidates. During the 1784 election she bravely canvassed the street for Fox, charming Londoners with her common touch. “During her canvass,” Walpole wrote, “the Duchess made no scruple of visiting some of the humblest of electors, dazzling and enchanting them by the fascination of her manner, the power of her beauty and the influence of her high rank.”

According to Foreman’s The Duchess, there were rumors Georgiana kissed men in exchange for votes, leading to scurrilous cartoons distributed by the Tory opposition. “You have almost unavoidably amassed a great deal of useless trash—gathered weeds instead of flowers,” Lady Spencer wrote Georgiana. “You live so constantly in public you cannot live for your own soul.”

Her mother was worried about more than bad press. The hard-partying Georgiana was one of a long line of Spencer gambling addicts. She also had a laudanum dependency, and a scandalous ménage à trois arrangement with her husband and the disreputable Bess Foster. Calamity struck in 1792, when Georgiana became pregnant by the future Prime Minister Charles Grey and was banished from the country for a while.

Georgiana returned to her husband and children two years later. For the remainder of her life she battled ill health, but continued her role as a political operative, aware of what she could have been. “Would I were a man,” she mused to Sir Philip Francis. “To unite my talents, my hopes, my fortune, with [Charles James Fox’s], to make common cause, and fall or rule.”

From the start, the Spencer legacy laid heavily on John Spencer’s (1924-1992)

shoulders. As a child he was constantly cowed by his genealogically obsessed, brutal father, who considered him an intellectual lightweight. “He used to dread the train journey home [from boarding school],” his son, Diana’s brother Charles, writes. “He would hide in shadows of the train carriage, hoping his father had forgotten to collect him.”

But by the 1940s, John’s heroism as a captain in the Royal Scots Greys during World War II, and his tall, good looks and simple charm made him a most eligible bachelor. According to the documentary When the Spencers Met the Monarchy, he was even once looked at by the palace as a suitor to the future Queen Elizabeth II.

Instead, in 1954, Queen Elizabeth II (whom he served as an equerry) attended his wedding to heiress Frances Roche at Westminster Abbey. The couple had four children—Sarah, Jane, Diana, and Charles (another son, John, died shortly after birth). They were a mismatched pair, he rather dull and she vivacious, but John was reportedly blindsided when he discovered Frances was cheating on him. “How many of those years were happy?” he later said of his marriage. “I thought all of them until the moment that we parted.”

After the dissolution of his marriage, John became Diana and Charles’s primary caregiver and developed what Lord Glenconner once termed “an unfortunate raw sausage look.” Although he was stiff and old-fashioned, he attempted to be an involved father, and Diana was determined to be his “comforting angel,” according to The Diana Chronicles.

In 1975, John’s fortunes turned when his curmudgeonly father died, making him the Eighth Earl Spencer. According to Andrew Morton, he also inherited a 2.25-million-pound bill for death duties as well as 80,000-pounds-a-year running costs for Althorp, the family estate in Northamptonshire. He also found a helpmate to run Althorp in the fascinating Raine, Countess of Dartmouth, whom he married in 1976 without even telling his children. “We weren’t invited. ‘Not grand enough,’” his daughter Sarah quipped to a reporter at the time.

Despite the flippant tone, John’s betrayal would cause a deep rift in the family. A severe stroke in 1978 caused him to become frail and even more distant from his children. “He was one person before and he was certainly a different person after,” Princess Diana said, according to Morton. “He’s remained estranged but adoring since. If he comes and sees me he comes and sees me, if he doesn’t he doesn’t. It’s not my problem anymore. It’s his.”

The Rebel: Frances Shand Kydd

Frances Ruth Roche (1936-2004) wasn’t from as noble stock as the Spencers, but her family was far richer. Her father Maurice, fourth Baron Fermoy, was a conservative politician and a “terrible bottom pincher,” Lady Glenconner says in The Diana Chronicles, while her wealthy mother, Ruth, was a scheming, incurable snob and great friend of Elizabeth, the Queen Mother.

It was Ruth who encouraged a teenage Frances to marry the much older John Spencer, despite her tender age. “When you meet someone at the age of 15 and get engaged just five months out of school at 17, you can look back and ask, ‘Was I adult?’” she asked years later. “I sure thought I was at the time.”

The couple cultivated a farm at her family home of Park House in Norfolk, but Frances was quickly disillusioned with life in the country as a young aristocratic mother. “I’m so bloody bored with opening village fetes,” she told a friend. It was no wonder that the fiery Frances wanted more. “She was very attractive and blonde and sexy with such joie de vivre and fun about her,” a friend told Brown, author of The Diana Chronicles.

By the 1960s, Frances escaped to London more and more. She also started having an affair with a married bon vivant named Peter Shand Kydd. In 1967, she separated from John and left her two youngest children with him. “The biggest disruption was when Mummy decided to leg it. That’s the vivid memory we have—the four of us,” Princess Diana later told Andrew Morton.

Frances fought for custody of the children but lost to John, partially due to her own mother, Baroness Fermoy, who testified against her. Social outcasts, the Shand Kydds eventually moved to the coast of Scotland, and their warm household was a refuge for her children when they were allowed to visit. “Diana and I adored it for its wild beauty and the fun we had on the sea, lobster potting and mackerel-fishing,” Charles Spencer recalls.

Frances counseled against her youngest daughter’s marriage to Prince Charles, seeing too many parallels to her own first marriage—including her mother’s encouragement of the match. According to Brown, after voicing her concerns, Diana said, “Mummy, you don’t understand. I love him.” Frances replied, “Love him, or love what he is?” To which Diana asked rhetorically, “What’s the difference?”

The Grande Dames: Barbara Cartland and Raine Spencer

Perhaps no writer influenced generations of British romantics—including Princess Diana—more than Barbara Cartland (1901-2000). The author of 723 books, Cartland had, in the words of Brown, a “penchant for pink, her meringue coiffure and false eyelashes,” which betrayed a steely, snobbish character that was tough as nails.

Cartland would pass both her strength and outrageousness on to her daughter Raine (1929-2016), whom she raised to be, in Brown’s words, a “social monster baby.” Not only did she nab Gerald Legge, Ninth Earl of Dartmouth, but she also forged a career as a conservative politician, becoming the youngest person to ever serve on the Westminster City Council.

“She never took any prisoners, and never took no for an answer,” a friend recalled.

In the early 1970s, Raine set her sights on the divorced John Spencer. “She wanted to marry Daddy; that was her target and that was it,” Princess Diana recalled. According to sources, “Acid Raine” alienated the children and old friends. She also took the reins of Althorp, allegedly selling off family treasures and decorating it in her and her mother’s garish style.

During the lead-up to Diana’s wedding to Prince Charles in 1981, what to do with the clownish Cartlands became a national conversation. According to Brown:

Alexander Chancellor, the editor of The Spectator, wrote an editorial in which he called for a special Act of Parliament to ban Raine and her mother from St. Paul’s Cathedral, adding, “For it would be more than a little unfair on everybody if these two absurdly theatrical ladies were permitted to turn a moving national celebration into a pantomime.” Diana was so afraid the pantomime might indeed take place, she pressed for stratagems to blackball Cartland.

In the end Raine was invited but her mother was not. This would not be the most awkward Spencer wedding—that prize would go to Charles Spencer’s first wedding in 1989, where Diana scolded Raine for her rudeness to their mother. “If only you knew how much we all hated you for what you’ve done, you’ve ruined the house, you spend Daddy’s money and what for?” she hissed.

For her part, Raine would tire of being the scapegoat for the Spencer dysfunction. “I’m absolutely sick of the ‘wicked stepmother’ lark,” she said, according to Kitty Kelley. “You’re never going to make me sound like a human being, because people like to think I’m Dracula’s mother.”

Surprisingly, Diana would come to agree. Toward the end of her life, she grew close to her stepmother, whose no-nonsense advice she came to admire. However, it appears there was no love lost between Diana and her former favorite writer, who would quip of the royal breakup, “Of course, you know where it all went wrong. She wouldn’t do oral sex.”

The Role Model: Lady Sarah McCorquodale

Born in 1955, Sarah Spencer was the oldest, and wildest of John and Frances Spencer’s brood. Reckless and salty from an early age, Brown writes that she was kicked out of boarding school and rode her horse into her grandmother’s living room. “Sarah always had to be the best at everything,” a friend recalled. “The best car, the wittiest put-down, and the best dress.”

She also had a constant shadow in her youngest sister, Diana. “I idolized my eldest sister and I used to do all her washing when she came back from school. I packed her suitcase, ran her bath, made her bed—the whole lot. I did it all and I thought it was wonderful,” Diana told Morton.

In 1977, Sarah, who had suffered from anorexia, according to Brown, met Prince Charles at Ascot. The two began dating, and it was Sarah who introduced Diana to the prince during a shooting party at Althorp (“I’m cupid,” she’d later quip). “I remember,” Diana later said, “feeling desperately sorry for him that my sister was wrapped around his neck because she’s quite a tough old thing.”

But Sarah’s romance with the prince would soon end. She made the mistake of talking to reporters. Not only did she reportedly confess to having “thousands of boyfriends,” she also disparaged Charles as a hopeless romantic. “I wouldn’t marry a man I didn’t love, whether it was a dustman or the King of England,” she said. “If he asked me I would turn him down.”

This cardinal sin would cause Sarah to be promptly frozen out, with Charles reportedly informing her, “You’ve just done something extremely stupid.” And so, only three years later Charles would begin to court the blossoming Diana. Perhaps there was a hint of jealousy in her alleged counsel to a despondent Diana to not pull out of the wedding over his relationship with Camilla: “Bad luck, ‘Duch. Your face is on the tea towels so you’re too late to chicken out.”

#princess diana #lady diana spencer #the spencers #the spencer family #a brief history into princess Diana's fiery family

19 notes · View notes

hisunshiine · 4 years ago

Text

Money Heist | knj | Part 1

moodboard 1 | moodboard 2 | playlist | Netflix ReImagined BTS Masterlist

↳ #NetflixReImaginedBTS: Kim Namjoon x Reader starring in a bank robbery au

↳ M-18+, implied sexual content, major character deaths, bank robbery actions (violence, use of weapons, deciet)

The Professor’s Rules

Rule #1 - No real names Rule #2 - No falling in love Rule #3 - Absolute trust Rule #4 - No games Rule #5 - Follow the plan, throughout Rule #6 - No taking lives, no civils Rule #7 - Low profile Rule #8 - Memorize the plan Rule #9 - Codes, escape routes Rule #10 - Blend

Prologue: Dread was not the right word to use to express how I felt. Every waking moment was an uncertainty. Every passing day I had to look over my shoulder. Senses on high alert, heart-pounding fiercer, I had to stay sharp. All I had to rely on was my intuition, rationality, the rush of adrenaline as it pumped through my veins as it guided me to safety.

There was no room for fuckups. Rules were set in place before, during, and after the heist. The Professor made sure of it.

Everything was methodically thought out. There was zero tolerance for anything that steered from what already was part of the Professor’s plan. Every detail was thoroughly calculated, gone through numerous times until perfected, and every possible scenario or turn the heist could go, the Professor had already considered it.

When I met him, I guessed him to be someone who was reserved. That initial thought, however, remained throughout the months I spent and got to know him. Regardless of my attempts to loosen him up, he grew more inward. A timid and quiet man, one I could not quite figure out despite my intuitive bullshit radar. My instincts told me otherwise. The Professor was someone I could trust. Moreover, he was someone who had my back if the going ever got tough.

Even after I had broken one of his sacred rules, he kept me around.

He stated it was solely because of my natural blend-ability. In other words, I was the type of person who could go unnoticed and get away with things. Although originally offended, one of the Daegu brothers – during our first meetings – mockingly pointed out my pretty privilege, claiming it was a universal thing to bend the rules and show favoritism to people that society deemed as attractive.

It bothered me to my core but despite it – and as the only woman on the team – I had to admit, I could complete missions and do things the others were not able to. Because of this, I was an asset regardless of how many rules I broke.

I was aware of it being careless, stupid even. It was not something that was planned, it was merely something that happened beyond my control. It occurred and I did not regret it one bit.

Love always seemed to happen at the least likely places. It was not a foreign concept to me, neither were relationships. In fact, I cherished everything about love and my language of expression was forever limitless.

When I was introduced to the other members the Professor carefully handpicked for the heist, I was taken aback by their charms and charisma.

They were handsome, all six of them; each with their own styles and skills to assist the Professor and his master plan. Some of them knew each other from rumors or past jobs and others did not.

I worked alone, always had and always would.

The day the Professor recruited me, he had asked to meet him at Chateau de Foix, a castle in France. He had sneakily placed a note in my jacket as I was scouting a Chanel store intending to rob it days later. I was not sure what I was getting into but before even meeting him, he assured me with his note that he could make me wealthier than I could ever contemplate. So, I met him at Chateau de Foix.

I was interested. He caught my attention.

He did not disclose much until he was certain I was someone who he could trust. Honestly, I could not blame him. Partners were not my thing, especially partnering with a man. There was something about them that made my skin crawl. When it came to men and money, there was always one certain thing; they would fuck you over.

The Professor laid out pieces of his plan and as obscure and ambitious as it was, I kind of felt intrigued by his nerdy appearance, his hesitation to look me in the eye, how well-spoken he was and how greatly he sold his plan.

Again, he caught my attention.

Luckily, he had informed me where the next meeting would be and that I was the only woman on the team. He requested I thought it over and I did. I flew to South Korea. That was where the plan had to take place.

At first, I could not escape the futile catcalls or misogynistic remarks. The Professor was too much of a beta to control the dominant thieves who thought they knew better than most.

The worst one was the man with the effortless beauty and striking features. At first glance, he did not look Korean. GC as we called him, or Geochang County as the Professor had dubbed him. Younger brother to Daegu and quite frankly, a little too handsy for my liking and too excited to see a pair of tits on the team. So, I did what I had to ensure my survival and role as well as what I did not tolerate.

He did not appreciate the sass and the chokehold on his intimate part as I stood my ground.

Since then, no one had attempted to try my patience. In fact, all the teasing became just that, teasing … with zero malice or ill intentional comments. They were guys around me, sure, but they became mindful, more tolerable. Exactly how I preferred my men.

For months, I spent time with the six guys including the Professor as we prepared to rob the Bank of Korea. I got to know them individually and I had to admit they were starting to feel like family.

The Professor had set us up at Jindo, a remote island known for its parting sea during the spring season. He had rented a beach house and from there we listened as the Professor disclosed his plan, made the necessary preparations such as getting familiar with the bank, its routines, staff, and much more.

Busan, Seoul, and I would often get paired when a trip to the Bank of Korea was presented.

Busan was a mastermind in human behavior and expertly designed profiles of everyone that worked at the bank; from cleaners to CEOs. If you ever wondered or had questions about anyone going in and out of the bank, Busan was the man to call.

Despite his small size and soft features, he was a man who could not tolerate disadvantages. Knowledge was power he would often say especially during a heist and he would stride for perfection.

He was smart.

I did not think of making profiles for the law enforcement that would be called to deal with the hostage situation we would inevitably have to take to secure our survival. But Busan did. He knew exactly who the bank would call, their past, their marital status, the number of kids, he knew everything.

He was an asset.

Seoul, however, possessed something that completely went over my head. Technology. At first glance, I guessed him to be an assassin of some sort.

He was the quietest of the group and the hardest man to get close to. Despite his big eyes and tattoos, he was extremely fun to be around. Once he opened up, I realized my instincts about him were a tad off. Although a part of me questioned my abilities, I came to the realization that looks could be deceiving. Seoul was someone who did not open up as easily as the rest and had to assess his environment first.

I was much like him and because of this, he and I became the closest.

The technology was not my strongest suit but it was his. Every trip we made to the capital, he gained more knowledge about the bank and the software they used including hacking their system, so we could gain access to the security cameras.

The Professor was beside himself when he received the live footage of the bank. This meant we did not have to expose ourselves by making those trips to the capital but could spy on everyone from the comfort of our beach house.

I was relieved. Unlike Busan and Seoul, I had to be the one to risk everything and use my abilities and go inside the bank. The Professor had bought wigs and often I would rotate them with each trip but that did not stop my heart from beating faster than it ever had.

A thief afraid of getting caught, Busan would joke often in my earpiece but the Bank of Korea was something far greater than the high-end stores I used to steal from. It was a different level and the consequence of getting caught was larger than a meaningless brand shop.

Once the dust settled and we gathered some information, part two of the Professor’s plan could start. Breaking in the bank and taking hostages as leverage was the easiest part. Once inside, we had to establish some kind of order. The Professor would be on the outside helping the rest coordinate from within while being the voice of the heist.

I caught him blankly staring at the vision board he often used like a teacher standing in front of his class, deep in thought as his eyes wandered across the whiteboard, “Can I help?”

“No, I’m thinking.”

“Need help thinking?” I teasingly suggested the wine bottle I was drinking from.

“Once inside, what is your job?”

“The hostages with GC.”

“Why?”

I shrugged as I took a sip. The Professor ripped his gaze from the board and glared at me. He was not in the mood for my games. Something was bothering him. So, I sighed, “We both can handle a gun, GC isn’t afraid to use it. By having one of each gender there, the women will feel safer and the men won’t try anything.”

“And?”

“And we are the calm and order. Our job is to keep them quiet and put the fear of God in them.”

“And you?” he murmured as he placed his index finger on the bridge of his nose, keeping his glasses from falling, “I am sure there will be arguments and disagreements once you get inside. There’s no going around that fact. All of you have some kind of experience but most of you are hot-headed. Who will put the fear of God in you? As you eloquently said. Who?”

“Gwacheon is the oldest.” The Professor stood up after my answer. I watched him as he began to collect his things from the desk before he excused himself, “Where do you plan on going?” I asked as I followed him to the front door.

“I’ll be back in a couple of days.”

“You didn’t answer my question.” He reached for his jacket and told me to trust him and take a break until he returned before leaving for an unknown mission.

A couple of days turned into a week. The Professor was gone and some of the other guys grew agitated. Some questioned him and his plan while others, including myself, did as he had asked and took a break.

Gwacheon, the oldest and the most level-headed person on the team, was lounging by the bonfire created for the dinner he was preparing. Loyal to the Professor as I was, he went ahead and took his suggestion.

Everyone was desperate for a break. It had been months of planning and thinking of every detail. A break was welcomed, needed.

Gwacheon had planned a dinner for the team and was thrilled to have some downtime. With beers in the cooler, the sun setting beyond the horizon, and a cozy fire, he began to season the beef as he hollered for me to start the music. The Professor was on my mind. So, in honor of him, I played ‘Bella Ciao’ by Manu Pilas. He was far from home as was I and although he was not around at the moment to enjoy the festivities with us, I knew he was with us in spirit.

I tapped on Gwacheon’s broad shoulder and he shot an amused smile. The Latin vibes of the upbeat song made me dance with soju in my hand. Allowing the Spanish words to energize and elevate my mood as I poorly attempted to sing along. He laughed at my dance but could not help swing his hips along to the beat.

My eyes then caught Daegu’s as he was assembling a gun. He smiled and shot me a quick nod to sit by him.

I eyed him as he began to pick the L85 apart before placing it in front of me. I raised an eyebrow at him, he chuckled while gesturing I gave it a shot. Proclaiming it was better to be prepared for a situation rather than a situation unfolding and remaining oblivious.

From the moment I met him, I knew he was the real deal, even heard rumors about the great mastermind who stole the Hope Diamond. When questioning him in my drunken state, Daegu simply flashed me a gummy smile. I was not too sure what that meant but I was certain he was someone who was legit and that I could potentially learn a lot from. I did.

Daegu was the kind of man who kept to himself, quiet and reserved like the Professor but he did not shy away from passing down his experiences and knowledge. I often caught myself wondering how polar opposite he was from his brother, GC. Daegu struck me as someone methodical with his approach while GC was spontaneous. But as the Professor ensured, GC had something most in the team did not have; quick thinking, unique perspectives, and the kind of smarts that could never be taught.

“Go ahead,” Daegu said as GC came into view with Gwangju carrying bowls of rice, kimchi, and steamed vegetables.

I grabbed the disassembled parts and attempted to assemble them to my best capabilities. Daegu grinned and GC approached the table. He waited a moment and watched as I struggled with the parts until he groaned and grabbed the gun from me.

Swiftly, he assembled the gun while casually counting in his native tongue, “Samshipil,” he announced as he slid the gun back to me, “31 seconds.”

“That’s a record,” Daegu smiled at his brother.

“I don’t know what the Professor was on but I doubt you’ll get any hostage to take you seriously if you can’t even do that.”

“Don’t listen to him. He’s a prick,” Daegu shot his brother a glare, “We have time,” he began to disassemble the gun once more, “Try again.”

I was grateful for Daegu’s patience. Although I had some knowledge of firearms, I tended not to use them during my ventures. A small pocket pistol was always in my bag and I could operate it. However, these types of guns were far from anything I had experienced, bigger too.

Luckily though, Daegu was a trained assassin and this was his specialty. He along with Gwacheon and Gwangju had pulled off heists before; together as well as separate. In other words, they were the experts on the team.

Daegu and Gwangju had a friendship like no other and had often saved each other from dire situations. They had worked multiple jobs together and relied on one another in admirable ways. For a moment, I was envious of their friendship and loyalty to each other.

Although Gwacheon had worked with them before, he often carried out small heists on his own. Much like myself, he preferred not to have a partner but made me realize that sometimes they could be useful, especially when it came to bigger jobs.

He was a lone wolf when he had to be. He told me to remember that. And I did.

I did not see the appeal. In fact, humans tend to be unreliable and oftentimes selfish. I could not trust it, anyone for that matter. It was one of the first things I learned from my father. His partner had sold him out, so he could reduce the sentence the authorities were threatening him with. Since then, I did not seek the help of others.

It was always me, myself, and I. However, the Professor managed to find a group of people whose company I actually enjoyed. Despite being thieves and some of them murderers, they were a group of men I had grown to like and trust.

Gwangju sat opposite me as I struggled with the L85. He clinked his soju bottle with mine and I grinned before giving up, “Look me in the eye as you take the first sip,” I ordered.

“Cheers,” he said and grinned, “Does that mean something where you’re from?”

“Means you’ll have bad sex if you don’t.”

“Well in that case,” he clinked his bottle with mine once more, “We don’t want that.”

He shot me a big and pearly smile before he began to assemble the gun. I studied his prominent features for a moment, admiring his natural beauty and olive skin before directing my gaze down at the heavy firearm as he explained which parts went where.

Fully focused on his words and his handle of the gun, I felt Busan’s presence behind me. He climbed between Daegu and me, “What’s up?” I asked when I caught his eyes.

“After dinner, we should get lit and go to the festival,” his suggestive demeanor forced a smile from me. Out of the six men, he was the one who actively sought my attention, persistent fucker.

He was interested in me, I could sense it. And although it would have been easy to spread my legs for him or any of the others, I was only interested in collecting my end of the robbery. Completing the heist unscathed was my sole concern and these little horny thieves were not going to stray me from my goal.

“Low profile,” Gwangju spat as my eyes were on Busan’s, “We can’t be seen together. Rule number seven.”

“Screw the Professor and his rules,” he responded without taking his eyes off mine. Busan studied my features as my gaze shifted from his plump lips to his dark eyes, “Besides, we deserve a little fun,” he directed his attention to Gwangju, “What the Professor doesn’t know won’t kill him.”

“He did say we were on a break until he got back.”

“Do not encourage him, London,” Gwangju warned after finishing the assembly of the gun.

“A little fun didn’t hurt anyone,” Busan voiced as his fingertips caressed my bare shoulder.

“Careful there, brother,” GC sat beside Gwangju with soju in hand, “You do not want her claws piercing your ballsack.”

“London wouldn’t be that mean to me,” Busan’s eyes wandered between mine and then my lips as he leaned closer, “Would you?”

I felt the hot air from his parted lip brush against mine and I could not help but meet him halfway. With a cocky smirk, I reached down for his clothed manhood, digging my sharp nails in the jean fabric he wore as a sudden groan escaped him, “Don’t get too comfortable, kiddo,” I whispered against his mouth as he hissed and cursed under his breath.

“Told you,” GC grinned, and soon after the rest began to laugh at Busan’s failed attempt.

➰

Busan convinced GC and Seoul to join him at the spring festival. Every year on the day of the parting sea, locals would celebrate the event by throwing a massive street party. The island was known for its festivities and attracted a lot of tourists. I could not visit South Korea and not experience what Jindo had to offer. So, I went, and as reluctant as Gwangju was, he joined us as well until Gwacheon decided to make it a family affair and convinced Daegu to join the outing too.

South Korea had always been a country I wanted to visit. It was known for its rich culture, delicious food, and its kind people. So far, I enjoyed everything I had experienced.

Despite the intention of the visit, I was grateful to be here and be amongst native men who could guide me and translate if needed. Sadly, one of the Professor’s rules was to blend as much as we could and not draw any attention to ourselves. Knowing him and the stick up his butt, he would not have been too pleased to know that we were lounging with the locals, getting drunk until late, and essentially making a mockery of his rule system.

Close to midnight, Daegu wanted to head back to the beach house and he did along with me and Seoul who had to prepare to monitor the bank in the morning. He was close to hacking into the internal security system, the one that allowed us to view everything on the inside.

Freshly out of the shower, the house was painfully quiet with most of the others still enjoying the festivities. I danced around with a pair of headsets blasting music in my ears, enjoying the alcohol that roamed in my system as I shimmied into my undergarments. ‘All That’ by Emotional Oranges came on and I sang along as I smeared lotion on my body. Soon the music captivated every inch of my body and I began to dance when suddenly I caught a glimpse of a man watching me by the door.

A loud gasp came out of me, but as startled as I was, my body knowingly eased, assessing the situation as I stared down the stranger without showcasing any fear. I had not seen him before and I wondered how he had gotten inside of the beach house.

Seoul had explicitly explained that the place was safely secured.

The man leaned against the doorframe as a small sigh evaded his plump lips while he unapologetically allowed his gaze to travel down my body, “The Professor didn’t say anything about a woman being on the team.”

“The Professor?”

He eyed me momentarily, “I didn’t mean to interrupt. I’m Ilsan. What’s your assigned city?”

“London.” I nodded as the realization came over me. He was what the Professor was searching for. He was the mission he had mentioned; the team’s leader and the one to instill the fear of God in us.

Just then did it occur to me that Ilsan had to be someone the Professor trusted completely. He was almost obsessively calculated with everything about the heist. For our safety and his own. Everything had to be planned. And he was right. We were hot-headed, argued, and disagreed many times. Everyone had their own styles but for the heist to be successful, it required that we all moved as a team. The Professor knew this, knew once we were inside, he was limited in terms of guidance. Although communication would be out of the question, he needed someone on the inside that would make sure the proper steps would be taken.

I eyed Ilsan and sensed why the Professor had chosen him. He had an authoritative aura. I was sure he was the kind of man who inserted his dominance well. The Professor was a beta but based on first impressions, Ilsan struck me as someone who did not mind and preferred - despite the pressure and responsibility - to be the top alpha of the team.

“London,” he sang, “That's a pretty name. I have been there. Wet country.” I attempted to hold back the appearing smile that the comment accurately described about my home city, “Did you choose it or did the Profess--”

“You got your sneak peek,” I hastily voiced, not interested in his small talk and especially with lack of clothes on, “Fuck off. I’m getting ready for bed.”

He chuckled into a low hum as he crossed his arms, resting his head against the doorframe, “You usually have a party before bed?” I caught a glance of his smirk and the dimples that came along with it. He was a flirt, much like Busan, and I was not having it. Ilsan did not know that I was someone not to be messed with. But he would soon. I walked over to the door and shoved him backward by his chest before slamming the door in his face.

47 notes · View notes

chubbyghostt · 4 years ago

Text

Nations during finals week

Part 1: World 8!

Germany seems like the best student alive. He’s immaculate. He passes every class and does all of his assignments on time. School is definitely his number one priority, and because of the person he is, he seems like his success is natural to him. However, behind all that is many many long nights spent up late at the library, and even longer studying and working at home. He’s the last one to turn in his finals because he has to go over it at least 10 times to make sure he’s gotten everything right. He’s never gotten a failing grade in his life, and the idea terrifies him. Someone teach this man how to take a break.

Italy is, well, Italy. That isn’t to say that he doesn’t do well. He’s very, VERY intelligent, so of course he does very well in his classes! However, he’s a bit of a slacker, and he doesn’t necessarily do everything that he should be doing. He studies with Germany, but he also spends too much time goofing off with Japan and their friends. He’s not even that anxious about failing. If he gets a bad grade, he takes it in stride and says he’ll do better next time. He’s friends with all his professors anyways. He has a good time during finals week, truly. He’s probably the least anxious college student during this period. Don’t we all wish we could have his confidence...

Japan is likely to be stereotyped as a straight A student who does nothing to study, right? Wrong. He does well! He puts in a good amount of effort, of course. He’s a dedicated and hardworking man. However, he knows exactly how much slacking off he can get away with and still be able to do well. He’s got a pretty good balance between chill and study, though he does have a habit of getting too absorbed in reading or video games and then has to stay up late to finish his work that night. Pretty average student overall! Though he gets super anxious before entering class to take his finals, second guessing whether or not he’s studied enough.

America is as cool as a cucumber leading up to finals week. He’s completely prepared, he’s unbothered. He’s never been more confident in his life, he’s goofing off and not even worried about the end of the semester... And then finals week actually begins. Thus starts a grease fire of panic, empty carbs, energy drinks, and late nights pouring over all the study material even though he ALREADY KNOWS THE SUBJECTS but he’s SO scared of failing. Someone help this poor baby, he looks like ass the entire week of finals.

England is the motherfucker that everyone hates in school. He literally NEVER studies, and yet he always passes anyways. He brags about never studying too, but he also does that fake “Oh shit what if I failed??” act when everyone around him knows that there’s no goddamn way that he failed. When he doesn’t know something, he is absolutely not above cheating. That, or he’s been known to pay people to do his work, or even paying professors to pass him. Nobody has ever been able to prove that he’s a cheater, but everyone knows it, and it drives Germany insane.

France is a master of confidence. Everyone’s sure that he’s going to do well, he’s surely been studying all year right? Wrong. He’s put everything off until the last minute. Finals week is the first week he’s done any of his homework. He smiles but he’s dying inside. He’s so anxious that he’s going to fail, but he can’t sleep because he’s anxious about not studying but he still doesn’t study and it’s a vicious cycle. He spends his time partying and having existential crises until the week is over, and then he’s somehow still shocked when he fails a class.

China is a pretty good student overall! He excels in the classes that he cares about, and he studies extra in those classes just for fun! However, classes that he doesn’t enjoy, he CANNOT make himself study for. He bullshits his way through the entire time, and when he barely scrapes up a passing grade, he never looks back. However, if his score is lower than he thinks he deserves, he will absolutely argue with his professor for HOURS about why his grade should be higher. He’s the sort of person you’d want as a class friend because he’d argue for you to get a higher grade as well.

Russia does very well during finals week. He’s pretty collected and confident, and he passes all his classes. However, nobody EVER sees him take notes or study, but they also can’t confirm that he doesn’t do either of those things. He never panics. Nobody knows how he does so well, he doesn’t reveal his secrets. People tend to assume that he just memorizes everything as it’s said to him because rumors spread around him like wildfire. However, the truth is that he just cheats. He just isn’t really that interested in any of the topics they learn in school, and he doesn’t care to put in effort for things he doesn’t like. He and America are always competing for top of their class.

Canada is also a slacker, unfortunately. He’s not the worst slacker, definitely better than France, but he has the same habit of pushing things off to the last minute. That, or his stoner ass forgets to do his work until the middle of the night, when it’s already too late to do anything. He seems like he’s doing fine, but really he’s stress smoking and trying his best to study at the same time. He’s study buddies with Cuba, but they don’t study well together, they get too distracted and end up not doing their work. He probably cries a few times during finals week before finally pulling himself together and not toking it up for a few days to study and take his tests. He’s absolutely miserable during this time, you’ve honestly never seen him more unhappy.

63 notes · View notes

themadauthorshatter · 3 years ago

Text

Let's dive back in.

I'm excited to meet our Million In One man❤

Sanders Sides BEETLEJUICE AU Part 2!!!

We start with Patton working on the model town, especially their own funeral, as Thomas tries dusting around. It's been a few more weeks and they're bored.

Thomas gives up and sits down, asking why there's so much dust, as neither have a body, and why they can't just leave; France is supposed to be really nice this time of year. Patton shrugs, but wonders maybe this house is their heaven.

Thomas smiles at that, though still questions why heaven is so dusty.

Patton hides a smirk and keeps working; "...Reeeasons?"

The two share a laugh and Thomas asks what Patton read in the hand book.

Patton stops his work and passes to book to Thomas, saying he can barely understand it, but maybe Thomas will.

Thomas gives it a go, skimming through the pages, checking for a table of contents, and an index before starting back at page 1; "Like Medical Chemistry all over again."

Cut to Patton as he continues on the model, more specifically the cemetery. We don't hear what Patton's thinking, but we see it on his face; the cemetery isn't big enough, because he didn't plan it out fully, the wreathes for his and Thomas's graves aren't as funeral-esque as he'd like, and he didn't make a different model for Dice, who he's still annoyed with.

He snaps out of it when he hears an, "OH!" from Thomas and asks what's up.

Turns out people usually won't see or hear the dead and Thomas and Patton are TEMPORARILY stuck in the house, but the amount of time isn't specified.

They hear a pair of cars pull up and investigate to see Dice again, who's not in any fancy clothes, but is still in black, and is accompanied by a VERY fancy looking business man.

Our ghost friends wonder what's going on, and get a bad feeling when they see Dice nod and shake hands with the business man.

Patton, however, notices the watch he's wearing and finds a telescope he has, using it to gwt a closer look.

The watch has rubies on it.

Thomas, who's more far sighted, asks what a guy like that is doing in this part of Florida, and pauses when he sees the growing excitement and unease on Patton's face.

They watch the two leave, and see Dice give the house another look and take a flask out of his coat and drink from it before going to his own car.

Thomas continues to watch as Patton leaves the window, leaning the telescope back against the wall.

WHICH MATCH CUTS TO A MAN HANDING A WOMAN A NEWSPAPER. She stares at it and then races away. We're in a studio, specifically in the dressing room/makeup area, it's nothing but controlled chaos, and everyone is fussing, well most at least.

These calm souls are the people painting on and fussing over a man, who we see in quick cuts, one with LOVELY, fluffy, full of volume, red hair, tan, smooth skin, and a body carved by gods, long legs, a thin waist, and lean body, but still muscular(so he's fit, but not buff; he has muscles, but he's still got the body of a ballerina), lovely eyelashes, eyebrows that match his hair, soft lips, ears pierced with roses and ruby studs, and all in all, a painting brought to life.

This, dear fans, followers, and viewers, is Roman Scarlet- now Deetz- and is preparing for his photoshoot, one that requires him to look like a porcelain doll to match with the set.

The idea came from his adopted son, who isn't there.

While we're focused on Roman, we hear a man whistle and compliment him, saying he looks like he was painted in oil and pastels. Roman smirks up at him and reminds him that he knows, because he's already said it.

Remy Deetz, his husband, shares a smirk and almost kisses him, almost because he stops himself-much to Roman's confusion- and says he's not allowed to distract anyone while they work, including Roman.

Remy looks the same as he usually is, but his hair's darker, just saying that now.

Everyone stops as we see the well dressed man from before, being Roman's agent.

Roman greets him quite warmly and asks what brings him and how his excursion went.

The agent reveals it went well and he's got good news AND bad news, so which would Roman like to hear first? Roman would like the former, please and thank you.

Good news: the house he's interested in is up for grabs and, seeing as how he's placed the highest bid on it, is as good as his.

Roman rejoices at this excellent news, clapping his hands and being a happy boy, before askimg what the bad news is.

The girl we saw pushes her way in and hands Roman the newspaper as his agent also delivers the bad news.

The house is up for sale because the original owners are dead, having drowned in a car accident. And unless Roman wants rumors to arise of him killing the two for the house, he'd better wait for a little while.

Roman has the wind knocked out of him, and asks how long they died.

A month.

After a moment, and a glance to Remy, Roman asks if he can still put a down payment on the house.

He can, but, again, he can't move in for a while.

Roman accepts thise terms; it's lighter on his conscious and still lets him have the house.

TIME JUMP A MONTH OR TWO AHEAD AND CUT TO THOMAS AND PATTON!

They're asleep in bed, and we get a ghost gag of Patton hogging the blanket and revealing a floating Thomas, who wakes up and falls down with a yelp.

Patton wakes up, too, but it's because there was a loud BANG that happened just as Thomas hit the floor.

He asks how high Thomas was to fall that hard, as Thomas asks Patton if he heard that BANG, especially one that happens again.

They quickly leave their room and see moving men enter the living room, and haphazardly shove a couch on a roller until it hits the stair railing.

Remy races over and tells them to please try being a little more careful becasue this is country craftsmanship, not city hocus pocus.

Roman slinks in and takes in the house he'd wanted so much, admitting it wasn't what he'd expected, but one of the owners was a small interior designer, so what was he expecting in the first place?

Thomas, from his place next to Patton on the upper level, gapes at the comment, very much offended as Roman goes back outside to examine the exterior.

Thomas wonders if Dice had a point, but Patton squeals at the fact that Cardinal Rose is in their house. Thomas isn't as enthused, mainly because 1. They can't talk to him, 2. He can't see them, and 3. Dice SOLD this house to him after the two had just died.

Patton is discouraged, but still smiles with Thomas that there's a celebrity in their house.

Thomas smiles with him and they have a fanboy moment, holding hands, squealing and giggling, and jumping with excitement; happiness now, stress later.

Cut to Roman outside as he scrutinizes the area. There's no fence or no gate to keep any intruders out. Not even a garden to make it pretty, at least.

His looking brings him to his car, and looks inside, his look of, 'what can I fix about this?' becoming a mix of disappointment and frustration.

"We'll be here for a little while, the LEAST you could do is come out and look at it."

He sighs and walks away, but we focus on the car as the back passenger door opens and reveals a boy.

He's a petite little thing, a young teenager between 13 and 16, kind of cat-like, but has that 'angry cat' look to him. He's got bags under his eyes, a slight scowl on his face, and is dressed in black. His hair is extremely cleverly dyed, black on top, where everyone can see, but purple underneath, which we see as he runs his hands through his hair.

He stares at the house with a mix of sorrow and indifference, muttering that they're now the Addams Family, maybe a little worse.

Remy calls for the boy, our emo himself Virgil, and asks him to be a dear and take his luggage inside and look for a room he wants; there's five bedrooms and three and a half bathrooms, so there's a lot to pick.

Virgil remarks that he'll try not to invade the master bedroom, because that's undoubtedly going to be Remy's and Roman's room, and trudges toward the house, Remy ruffling his hair.

Remy watches Virgil before turning to Roman, who's standing and doing his best thinking face.

Remy wraps his arms around Roman from behind and asks for his opinion. Roman gives it to him flat: he wants to change the house. Remy gives him a withering look and Roman stipulates it will be just a few things, nothing major. Maybe take down a wall or two and put them somewhere else, maybe some paint, just things that will make this house their home.

Remy politely asks him not to, because this house belonged to someone else and shouldn't be torn up, but Roman reiterates: not the whole house. Just a couple things and then it can be hone. And he dares Remy to say the house is perfect as is, because it's not. He's just trying to make Roman and Virgil comfortable and he knows it.

Remy admits that he DOES want Roman and Virgil to feel at home and there are a few touch-ups that can be made, but this house wasn't even theirs to begin with, so they shouldn't change up too much.

Roman, quite solemnly, states that the house is theirs now and the owners aren't coming back, not when they're in a better place.

Comedic cut to Patton and Thomas as they sit and watch the moving madness unfold, right in their house. Virgil slips in, and catches Patton's attention.

Virgil looks around as Remy and Roman return.

Remy asks what the teen thinks of their new home. Virgil looks over at Roman, who's judging again, and murmurs that he(Roman) probably hates it. He spots a spider on the stairs railing, like between the rungs, and admits he could live here, letting the spider crawl onto his hand.

Remy walks over to an armchair and takes a seat, taking a breath and checking his watch. He doesn't know about Virgil and Roman, but it's only been twenty minutes and he already feels at home. Roman muses, "Good for you," and notices the kitchen, sighing at how that, at least, is acceptable and something he's probably not majorly changing, maybe he can even get into cooking, like he's been trying. As he walks up the stairs, Virgil calls about, quite bitterly, about how great it is that cooking is another thing Roman's good at.

Roman walks to the beginning of the stairs and dares Virgil to repeat that, though Remy calls for them both to leave each other alone; even though the comment was a little rude, Virgil's still nervous, and new to Roman's lifestyle, and needs time to adjust, and moving around a lot does not help with that. Roman counters that he's nervous too, but that doesn't mean he's going to be a sourpuss and snap at anyone who passes by.

Patton and Thomas try to ignore the argument, but are appalled by the fact that Dice gave their house to these people. Patton wonders why they even moved, if they hate it in this part of Florida. Thomas groans that they're probably from the city and probably want to use the land for making more condos and apartment buildings. Patton asks if Remy's a writer, though, and Thomas leans to his side until he falls to the floor, groaning how both their idols are selfish and insufferable. Patton rubs his arm as Virgil walks by.

The two catch a glimpse of each other, though it's in slow motion(nothing but TV perspective in this series), Patton giving a confused look as to why a teen would wear so much black in the Florida summer and Virgil having his own confusion be because he thought the house was empty before they moved in, the owners are dead, after all.

Before Roman and Remy can really go at it, someone walks through the door and muses that despite the change of scenery, Roman hasn't changed at all, being dramatic and lovely, as always. His entrance catches everyone's attention, though Virgil hightails it into room hunting.

Remy rolls his eyes as Roman squeals with joy as he hugs his friend, Janus, a golden blond who displays a tattoo on the side of his face to hide his scar, has gotten his ear on the same side cropped so it's sharp, and looks almost as impressive as Roman, though he slays in a plain black suit and yellow dress shirt.

The two hug and Roman barely contains his excitement at the fact his friend came all the way from the city to see him.

Janus returns the gesture and is glad to see Roman too, because this place, in its current state, will not do, and it's a good thing Remy's a best seller, because they're renovating big time.

Roman gives a glance to Remy and says that the house itself is fine, he just wants to make small-ish changes.

Thomas quickly sits up just as Virgil opens one of the bedroom doors, Thomas shouting and Virgil calling out, "Knocking down a wall and throwning paint on it is not a small change!"

Roman harshly shushes and gestures for Virgil to go away, but Janus shakes his head; guess Virgil hasn't changed either.

Patton pulls Thomas back and asks what they're going to do, because he can't tell if this is paradise or punishment.

Thomas shrugs and replies that he's not sure, but knows they can't stop them, seeing as how no one can see them, but that sets off a light bulb in both their heads and they turn to each other.

Both have been reading the handbook, and there's a word for thise in their situation, a word that makes them smile and foght to contain another hit of excitement:

Ghosts.

With a laugh, forhead touch, and quick kiss, they get to work.

#sanders sides #sanders sides au #beetlejuice au #roman sanders #ts roman #remy sanders #ts remy #virgil sanders #ts virgil #janus sanders #ts janus #character death tw #implied alcohol #dice sanders #critic sanders #not handling grief well tw

8 notes · View notes

immoral-tales · 4 years ago

Text

Wicked Ballad

Simeon X Fem!Reader

Word Count: 7,313

Warnings: angst; mentions of religion; corruption;

A/N: I would like to thank my close and dearest friend for aiding me when I was writing this heart-wrenching story. If it had not been for her, I would have—most likely—made it much worse. Truth be told, many stories and art have inspired me to write this story, therefore, I would like to thank everyone. I sincerely hope you love this story as much as I adore it. I almost cried whilst writing it, I poured my heart and soul into it.

Summary: a bittersweet tale of an angel and his human crossing paths with each other. their story truly is a wicked ballad.

❝You say I took the name in vain I don't even know the name But if I did, well really, what's it to you? There's a blaze of light in every word It doesn't matter which you heard The holy or the broken Hallelujah❞

He could vividly recall the very first time his blue gaze had laid on her. It was in front of the Cathedral of Notre-Dame, in the middle of the night. Dragging an unfamiliar piano in the deserted streets of Paris, the clock striking midnight. He could remember the word “Yamaha” was emblazoned on the wooden part. Settling herself on the wooden stool, she opened the lid of the piano, her manicured fingers skimmed over the keys. Straightening her back, she took a deep breath and started playing a soothing melody. The harmonious notes lingered in the air, dancing with the wind, engulfing the deafening silence with great ease.

The moon glimmering in the darkness of the night, the scattered stars accompanied it with their dim illumination above the cloudless sky of the city. It was a breathtakingly beautiful sight, one in a million. A familiar wind caressing her face; the symphonious notes her slender fingers produced, reverberated in the air, waltzing around the ancient buildings of the capital of France.

It was an enchanted song for a creature like him. Humans... Who would have thought their simple, yet unforgettable creation would mesmerize an angel?

The rumors spread like wildfire about the fallen angel finding refuge at the cathedral. Every one of them refused to accept the responsibility, the humans heard about their ceaseless quarrel and took matters into their own hands.

Both of the sides present in the city, they had heard so much about. It was the day when the creatures of hell and heaven had decided to leave their humble abodes and visit the neutral territory, the human world. If they had been familiar with the term, they would have referred to this realm as Switzerland, always avoiding conflicts like the plague and minding their own business. Even though they had a perfect opportunity to get involved, they would never trouble themselves as humans abandoned their faith years ago. They stopped believing in miracles decades ago.

Heaven and Hell, paying a visit to the capital of France to see the scene unfolding right in front of their eyes. It was the day when humans had enough of their endless cycle of invisible war as if they did not have their own wars to handle.

An angel had fallen and no one was certain what path he would choose. The spectators surrounding the Cathedral of Notre-Dame had made sense now. As a human would have said, they were the juries of the court and they would be making a verdict. A final decision would be theirs. And humans, they had to play the devil’s advocate. An ironic choice of words.

The situation was becoming tenser and tenser, it could have been cut with a knife. The air surrounding the cathedral felt suffocating, making it almost impossible to breathe. And it was not because of the pollution.

It was a sight to behold, and every one of them was well aware of it. The woman sitting in front of the piano resumed playing her captivating melody. She had realized the predicament she was in when she dragged the piano across the empty streets of Paris. She was not alone, she had viewers from other realms. If she were not too engrossed in her activity, she would have mocked their curiosity. Tilting her head; her cold and calculating eyes were fixated on the entrance of the cathedral. Her hands moved in a hypnotic manner as if it was natural for her to be in the darkness, playing an enthralling piece of music. As some would have called it, a true masterpiece. It had never been her responsibility to lure the fallen angel out of the holy grounds, yet she understood his dilemma rather well.

The song was nearing its end and the woman could sense the tension in the air rising as the last notes of the harmonious melody faded, becoming non-existent. Finding a replacement to it was not that difficult, the breeze swept in, greeting her as if it had been an old friend of hers. The silence reigned in the air, lingered there more than necessary. It had overstayed its welcome, refusing to leave her side.

Standing up from the wooden stool, she stretched her arms and stepped forward. The sounds of the clacking of her high heels against the pavement resounded in the deafening silence. A knowing smirk tugged at the corners of her lips, her eyes continued to study the grand entrance as she did not trouble herself to pick up her pace. Strutting towards her destination, her walk was painfully slow as she was tormenting her spectators by depriving them of the show. She inspected the tufts of white hair peeking out of the opened door. Her suspicions proved to be correct as she halted in front of the cathedral. Opening her lips, she started speaking. “There is no need to be afraid of me. I won’t hurt you, I promise.” Raising her hands, she demonstrated she was unarmed. Perhaps, he was not aware of the gesticulations, but the tone of her voice indicated she was not a threat to him.

Taking his sweet time, he had finally decided to reveal himself. Stepping forward, he walked out of the cathedral. His movements were slow; however, the woman had no problem with it. It was a normal occurrence for her, and she was well aware, earning one’s trust was not a simple task. Taking a deep breath, she extended her hand for him to take. As he fully exited the premises, she could clearly see his appearance under the artificial light of the lampposts. He was a young angel. His stark white hair covered his amber eyes filled with curiosity. He was not a fallen angel, he had merely lost his path and found refuge at his Father’s home.

Tilting his head, he examined her cautiously. Before the woman in front of him had a chance to utter a word, he ran towards her and wrapped his small arms around her, embracing her tightly. She froze in one place but quickly reacted as a low chuckle escaped her full lips. “Easy there, no one is going to hurt you.” Ruffling his short hair, she looked down at him with a smirk. He was so young, yet they kept referring to him as a fallen angel. Hypocrisy at its finest. She had a strong desire to roll her eyes but refrained herself from making the young angel uncomfortable.

She handled the situation quicker than anyone had anticipated, therefore, they were free to return to their respective realms. But one issue was still present, she was not certain what to do with the angel. Shaking her head, she glanced down at the boy who was not planning to release her from his iron grip. Opening her mouth once more, she was interrupted. Pursing her lips into a thin line, she furrowed her brows as she heard a loud clapping noise resonating in the air, shattering the deafening silence. A hulking figure emerged from the shadows, clad in a red uniform. The Prince of Hell graced her with his presence as his loyal butler trailed behind him.

Quirking a brow, she turned around to greet the familiar faces. Shielding the young angel with her body as he hid behind her, watching two men with great fascination. A sly smirk danced across her beautiful facial features. Nodding her head in acknowledgement, she began speaking. “Came here to enjoy the show, My Lord?” Those undertones of mockery still laced her alluring voice as she cast a glance at the notorious butler. Allowing every one of them to realize she was aware of their location as they lurked in the darkness of the night.

A sigh escaped her full lips, her attention returned to the young angel as she squeezed his shoulder lightly, in reassurance. As long as he was with her, she would never allow him to be put in harm’s way. It was her silent vow, yet all of them understood it. She had no intention of demonstrating her positive qualities to the world to see—the spectators of the three realms, to be more precise. The woman could feel how her young companion’s tense body relaxed as he resumed staring at the demons. He had never seen them before, and it was not that difficult to deduce it.

As always, booming laughter reverberated in the streets of Paris, bringing her back to reality as she craned her neck to get a better look at the handsome prince. Despite wearing high heels, he was still taller than her. As much as she did not wish to admit, she had always wondered what they had been giving him to be this huge. However, she did not have any right to complain, and she was not going to.

“How could I possibly miss such a spectacular show?” Grinning confidently, he exposed his pearly white teeth to the world; and crossed his muscular arms over his defined chest. His golden eyes glinted with mischief as they studied his beautiful companion. Straightening his back, he resumed speaking. “It is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to witness a human playing the piano for an angel in the streets of one of the human realm’s most popular cities.” His excitement was quite noticeable in his voice, but he did not trouble himself to conceal it as he meant every one of his words.

Nodding her head in understanding, she glanced at his loyal butler as he mirrored his master’s action. Of course, every one of them was aware of it, but a human had to do the dirty work. Their every step was calculated beforehand; however, the humans had the element of surprise; and she used it to her advantage. These immortal beings never anticipated such an outcome, but she did. It was her world and no one knew it better than her.

Shaking her head to dismiss all of her useless thoughts, she gave them a questioned look; and was ready to deliver her endless cycle of sarcastic remarks. Taking a deep breath, a sly smirk danced across her attractive features as she opened her mouth to start speaking. “As much as I wish to give you what you desire most, unfortunately, I enjoy our game of cat and mouse a bit too much.” Her mesmerizing eyes shone underneath the moonlight, yet they did not reflect anything.

Another boisterous laughter echoed in the air, stepping forward, the brown-haired demon prince got closer to the woman. He pounced on her, enveloping her with his strong arms in a tight embrace; and lifting her off the ground. A low chuckle escaped her full lips as she looked back at the young angel. He was still astounded by the scene that unfolded right in front of his eyes. Feeling safe around the demons was an understatement, but he could feel at ease as she was with him. This human woman was his guardian angel, but in reality, it should have been the other way around. His amber eyes observed their interactions cautiously as he understood the woman was not hostile towards the demons. He had always had a great fascination with humans, but coming into contact with a human was a different experience. The young angel was thrilled to learn more about them. His morality clashed with his desire. At this point, he did not wish to return to his home, the Celestial Realm. He decided to remain with her. Oh, how excited the woman would be upon hearing the news.

“I would like to discuss a very important matter with you, but not here.” The tone of the demon prince was quite serious as it caused the young angel to snap out of his trance-like state. Getting even closer to his companion, he whispered words that were only meant for her. His golden eyes were locked with her captivating ones as he awaited her answer. He earned a nod of approval from her. His grin widened as he clasped his manicured hands together. He snaked his arm around her waist and guided her away from the cathedral. The Cathedral of Notre-Dame. He assured her his loyal butler would take care of her piano.

Walking away, the clacking of her high heels resounded through the streets of Paris. The young angel followed her as he eyed the demon prince suspiciously, but he trusted her. He had faith in her.

Saved an angel; was tempted by the demon prince himself as he led her away from the cathedral. The woman was aware of her surroundings from the beginning. No one could use her. That was her remarkable ability. She was desired by many, yet none of them had the privilege to touch her or even dream about having her in their arms. She was one of a kind; and every one of them knew. The Prince of Hell did not cajole her into following him with his words, she merely accepted his offer.

The clacking of her high heels became unbearable as the spectators resumed enjoying the scenery. His blue gaze had never left her as he silently prayed she would look back. One last time. The woman halted dead in her tracks, surprising her companions. Looking over her shoulder, a half-smirk decorated her beautiful facial features as her eyes stared into the void of blackness, far away from the artificial lights. His breath was caught in his throat, she could sense his presence. She could feel his eyes on her, she had heard his prayer.

“After introducing our new exchange program students,” a loud, booming voice resounding in the large ballroom. Covering the melodious music to earn every one of the attendants’ attention. All eyes were on the tallest man in their presence and they looked at him with great interest as they awaited their prince to resume his speech. “I would like all of you to enjoy yourselves.” It was not the monologue they had anticipated, but none of them were troubled with the short introduction of their prince’s guests from the other realms.

Every one of them returned to their respective activities as the pleasant, yet unfamiliar melody played in the background to make the visit of attendants at the Demon Lord’s Castle unforgettable. The Prince of Hell himself was quite preoccupied with engaging in conversation with his close friend, the Avatar of Pride, and an old acquaintance of his as his sharp golden eyes detected a rather familiar face in the ocean of people. A huge grin tugged at the corners of his lips, his eyes crinkled in delight as he managed to get both of his companions’ attention. The black-haired man gave him a questioned look, awaiting his response. Diavolo did not pay any heed to his subtle signals. Waving his arm, he opened his mouth to start speaking. “It’s good to see you again. I thought you would never come.” His voice had a playful lilt to it as his eyes were fixated on a feminine figure in front of him.

A woman clad in a long, black dress with a slit that reached her mid-thigh that hugged her curves perfectly. A simple, yet elegant combination of attire attracted their attention, but she did not seem to mind all the eyes that were on her as she idly conversed with the white-haired sorcerer. Flashing him one of her infamous smirks, she excused herself and turned on her heel to leave. Swirling her alcoholic beverage absentmindedly, she straightened her back and stepped forward. Her high heels were clicking and clacking against the marble flooring as she took a deep breath. She already had a certain destination in mind, her smirk grew wider. Her eyes were fixated on the handsome demon, weaving her way through the crowd was not an obstacle for her as she easily arrived at her destined location. The tantalizing sway of her hips earned her several compliments from the demons.

A low chuckle escaped her full lips as her eyes met his golden ones. Bowing her head for the sake of formality, she straightened herself, once more, and took a sip of her beverage. “My apologies, My Lord. Every woman takes her sweet time preparing herself for the big event. Unfortunately, I missed the introduction of your new students.” Breaking eye contact with him, she cast a glance at the sorcerer and resumed speaking. “I have to admit, you have chosen rather intriguing candidates from my world, without consulting me.”

Simpering, he followed her gaze and nodded his head in agreement. Diavolo shrugged his shoulders as he commented on her remark. “It was Lucifer who chose the candidates from the human world.” Looking at his companion, his eyes glinted with an unreadable expression as he continued talking. “I believe you are familiar with Lucifer, but have you ever met our new exchange program student from the Celestial Realm?” the brown-haired prince questioned his beautiful companion as he directed her attention towards his third companion.

A handsome dark brown-haired man with a brilliant shade of blue eyes—the most enthralling color she had ever seen in her life. He had a charming smile dancing across his breathtakingly beautiful features. His blue gaze never left her figure as his companion resumed his conversation. “Allow me to introduce you to Simeon. He is one of the two angels sent from the Celestial Realm to take part in the exchange program. And this is [Name] [Surname]. She is…” He trailed off. The Prince of Hell stopped for a moment to think about it.

The woman standing right next to him sensed his distress and decided to get involved to avoid any unpleasant situations. Offering one of her infamous smirks, she extended her hand for him to take as she opened her mouth to begin speaking—well, finish what Diavolo had started. “Lord Diavolo, I’m certain the introduction was not necessary as we are familiar with each other.” She sent a wink in his direction as Simeon stared at her extended hand. It took him several seconds to realize what that gesture meant as he took her hand, shaking it. His grip was firm but gentle. Releasing her slender hand from his bigger one’s grasp, her next sentence made him snap out of his reverie as his heart picked up its pace.

“We met in Paris.”

Simeon blinked once, twice, thrice. His heartbeat was getting faster and faster as her words echoed in his mind. He did not hear how Diavolo and Lucifer left them alone to speak with other guests. His companion took another sip of her beverage and attempted to break the ice. Biting her lower lip sensually, she thought for a moment. “Have you ever heard the tale of Romans? In ancient times, Romans shook each other’s hands to demonstrate they were unarmed and their handshake was a symbol of friendship and loyalty.”

Shaking his head to dismiss his useless thoughts, his blue eyes met with hers. She was aware of the events, taking place in the capital of France. Oh, Lord Almighty, she knew. The brown-haired man was great at having conversations with anyone, yet this one human managed to take his breath away by uttering several words. He was not certain how to respond to her, but to one’s relief, she quickly detected his uneasiness and resumed speaking. “I know what you are thinking, Simeon.” A low chuckle escaped her lips, once more. “Please forget what happened in Paris. The young angel is safe and he is with me. During my absence, he will remain in Rome, at my family estate. If you don’t trust my word, then you may pay a visit to him. In the meantime,” she inspected her surroundings. “May I have the honor to accompany you outside as it is getting rather crowded in here?”

Placing her half-empty glass on the nearby table, she inhaled the fresh air. Getting closer to him, she linked her arm with his and started to lead the way, guiding him outside of the Demon Lord’s Castle. Simeon was speechless, he could not utter a word as he allowed her to sweep him away. The blue-eyed angel had met many humans and demons in his long existence, but this human woman intrigued him. Her enigmatic aura attracted him, he wished to learn more about her. Simeon was an experienced and mature angel, he could easily read anyone like an open book; however, her behavior puzzled him. By now, he could have gone through numerous subjects during his conversation with Diavolo and Lucifer, but not with her. The woman waltzed into his life without asking him, and currently, she is dragging him away from the ball.

It would have been an understatement if he had said he preferred to remain at the castle. His gorgeous companion guided him outside of the premises, into the gardens. There was the moon glimmering above them in the darkness of the night as the stars accompanied it with their dim illuminations. It was a beautiful, cloudless sky. Looking up to get a better look at the scenery, he noted the moon of the Devildom differed from the one in the human world. And he was certain, she would not be fascinated by the view unlike him. His blue gaze landed on his arm that was linked with her, and then, his mesmerizing eyes studied her as if he was trying to memorize every small detail of hers. In his eyes, she was perfect.

Yet the angel wondered to himself, how he had managed to find her. There were more than seven billion humans on Earth and he had the privilege to meet an occult detective with an eccentric personality and antics. He had to find this particular human interesting. Simeon cursed his existence, at the same time, he silently thanked his Father for allowing him to meet her. Developing romantic feelings for a human was not an option, but he indulged in his sinful desires a little bit.

Releasing him from her grasp, she turned around to face him as she leaned back on her elbows against the railing. Her cold and calculating eyes studied him, but not with a scrutinizing gaze. Her tense body relaxed as she allowed herself to close her eyes for a moment. The deafening silence reigned in the air, she refused to speak up, taking pleasure in being far away from the crowded ballroom.

A soft hum resonated in the darkness of the night, opening her eyes, she straightened herself. Her gaze softened as she glanced at her handsome companion. Pretending she was sitting in front of the piano, her slender fingers started moving with perfect synchronization. It seemed they had minds of their own as they produced illusive notes, waltzing in the air. Her eyes met his brilliant shade of blue. She studied them with great curiosity. It was barely undetectable, yet she noticed how his sapphires lit up, engulfing her with his warmth.

Stepping forward, she got closer to him. Her eyes were locked with his as the silence lingered between them, not planning to leave them any time soon. Even though she delighted in being with him in solitude, she had a strong desire to have a decent conversation with the angel. The woman opened her mouth to start talking. “This will remain between us. Cross my heart and hope to die,” a low chuckle escaped her full lips as she resumed. “Stick a needle in my eye.”

Before the brown-haired angel had a chance to respond to her a rather odd vow, she gave him a two-finger salute and turned on her heel, leaving him to his own thoughts. Simeon opened, then closed his lips into a thin line as his blue gaze never left her. Her tight-fitting dress outlined her curves, awakening immoral desires within him. Feeling his heartbeat increasing, this human did wonders to his immortal heart.

The rays of sunlight seeped through the famous stained rose windows of the cathedral, dimly illuminating the surroundings. The rows of pews decorated the main part of the church to greet as many believers as possible. Its doors were always open to anyone that wished to pay a visit to one of the wonders of the modern-day world. Every one of the visitors adored the magnificent masterpiece of the French Gothic architecture accompanied by its loyal guardians, gargoyles—never once leaving their respective places to keep a close eye on the place they learned to call home. An intriguing statement, yet all of them were well aware it had the seeds of truth.

The Cathedral of Notre-Dame—The place where it all had begun—had always had countless visitors to witness its greatness with their own eyes, yet it was devoid of its usual attendants. A familiar silence reigned in the air as it lingered more than necessary, not allowing anyone or anything to produce sounds. However, the clicking of the rather familiar shoes against the marble flooring resounded in the large cathedral, shattering the deafening silence completely. The sounds of footsteps halted in front of the altar as the man dropped to his knees, his white cape pooling around him as his head lowered in humiliation. His heavy breathes resonated throughout the church, his quickened heartbeat could be heard.

His lips were pursed into a thin line as both of his hands clutched a rosary, hard enough to draw blood. Closing his endless oceans of blue, letting out a shaky breath, he stopped himself. The stagnant air in the church was suffocating, burning his lungs. The man opened his mouth, yet no words came out. Inhaling the fresh air, he listened to his heart hammering against the ribcage, convinced it would jump out of his chest.

Evening his breathing, he gained enough confidence to open his bewitching eyes as he raised his head. He started speaking. “Father, I have sinned against heaven and in your sight, and am no longer worthy to be called your son.” His words echoed in the cathedral.

His very own words made him shiver with disgust. Was remorse eating him alive? Were his mind and intuition screaming at him that it was too late to redeem his actions? Was he regretting his deeds? All of the questions were running rampant in his mind. He could not help himself, yet he had tainted himself. Was he even worthy of stepping his foot in his Father’s house? Thinking about it made him hang his head in shame, the tufts of his brown hair framing his sapphire blue eyes. The angel tightened his grip on the rosary.

A soft melody found its way as his mind played tricks on him. It was a wicked ballad, yet he was enamored by it. He could not escape its clutches, dragging him further into the depths of hell. The return was non-existent. His predicament was laughable, he understood the absurdity of his situation. The brown-haired angel had always believed he would not make a similar mistake, yet there he was contemplating his own existence. Simeon was certain it was a fleeting feeling, a mere infatuation with a human woman.

The brown-haired angel should have heeded the warnings of not following the white rabbit until the end of the road. Now, he had fallen down the rabbit hole and he could not claw his way out of it. He fell deeper than he had anticipated. Could his soul still be saved?

An angel falling for a human. How could anyone be so foolish to voluntarily corrupt themselves? Straying away from the path of the righteous man. An angel; a man of God—falling head over heels in love with a human. Having strong bonds with the creations of God had never been an issue, but getting involved with one of them had always been frowned upon. Simeon had been aware of it, yet he could not help himself.

His body stiffened, his prayers had fallen on deaf ears. His heart-wrenching pleas had not been heard, it was apparent. He could sense it. Simeon’s words merely ricocheted off the ancient walls of the cathedral. His stark white attire dirtied, his hands scarred beneath the black gloves from clutching the rosary. It was a sight to behold. An unforgettable memory for a mortal man, yet no one was there to witness the angel’s former glory. The angel’s silent cry of distress to be heard. He was all alone at his Father’s home.

The cursed notes of melody had never left him, accompanying him until the end. A loud clatter reverberated, the rosary slipped through his iron grip and fell to the polished ground. A low chuckle escaped his lips, his heart beating rapidly against his chest as he looked up, his brilliant shade of blue staring at the ceiling. He should have known, yet he knew. It was inevitable. Every one of them was aware of it from the beginning.

The clanking of ice, joyous laughter, and a familiar song played in the background. Creating a welcoming aura for the guests that desired to visit a small bar in Zurich, Switzerland. The true neutral territory of the human world—especially for humans. They had once said: “politics is a dirty game.” And every one of them agreed. As they would say, it was a “human thing” and a demon, nor an angel would never understand it. An intriguing concept, yet some were not courageous enough to delve deeper into the matter. The creations of God—humans—were an interesting case.

As the music resumed playing in the background, the guests enjoyed their alcoholic beverages in their own small circle of friends. It was a unique place and all of them intended to keep it that way for a long time. It was a perfect consensus among strangers.

A certain woman frequented the bar with her associate and it was yet another day to discuss their daily lives. Her eyes had a mischievous glint as they were locked with her companion’s unnaturally-colored ones. With a shake of her head, she took a sip of her dirty martini. Settling her glass on the wooden table, she opened her full lips to throw one of her snide remarks in his direction, but she was interrupted when someone barged into her haven. Quirking a brow, she looked over her shoulder to see the person who opened the wooden double doors with such force. Her eyes widened as she froze in her seat. Her words were caught in her throat.

Her companion mirrored her actions as he cast a glance at the entrance of the bar. Exhaling, he blinked several times to adjust his vision. He was not certain whether his eyes were deceiving him or his mind was playing tricks on him. He swallowed thickly as he opened his mouth to start speaking. “Luke, what are you doing here? Most importantly, how did you find us?”

Solomon took the words out of her mouth as if he had read her mind. His yellow-blue eyes studied his partner thoroughly, her every facial reaction and movement. The sorcerer did not require her affirmation to understand something unspeakable had occurred, yet he was not certain whether she was aware of it or not. His curiosity had always been insatiable, but with this woman, he never allowed himself to let his guard down as she was a walking disaster. She attracted trouble without even trying. And of course, the young angel—already—in front of their table was the living proof of it.

Clenching his hands into fists, his face was entirely red as his nostrils flared. “How could you do this to us?! I thought you cared.” The young angel’s fury was directed towards the woman.

Her expression was unreadable, her eyes were devoid of emotions. No sign of life. She could not utter a word as she lowered her head in shame. All eyes were on her, everyone at the bar watched how the entire scene unfolded. The guests of her favorite bar were the witnesses of her humiliation and failure as their judgemental stares bored holes into her soul. Every one of them was observing her with their scrutinizing gazes. Lowering her head even further, her hair obscured her regretful face. She received their silent curses openly, accepting them. Taking a deep breath, she raised her head and looked at him.

The white-haired sorcerer could sense her melancholic soul, her nihilistic thoughts, and the rapid beat of her heart. He did not even deem necessary to use magic on her to see her facade cracking and her mask slipping after all these years. Yet he still was amazed by how she held herself. He could not tear his eyes off of her as he resumed observing her.

“Of course, I did…” She trailed off, taking her sweet time to process the young angel’s every word. The background music did not allow silence to reign in the air, not this time. “I…” The woman stopped as she pursed her lips into a thin line, refusing to say another word.

It was getting unbearable, the tension was tormenting the young angel. He was not used to it, he was not even used to being surrounded by so many sinners. Humans and their judgemental gazes. He could feel his lungs burning because of the air. It had been tainted. Shaking his head in disbelief, his nails dug into his palms, his knuckles turning white from the sheer pressure. Gritting his teeth, he exposed his pearly white teeth to the world.

“They are judging Simeon.”

Four words. Those four damned words. Feeling her skin being prickled with goosebumps, her frozen state worsened. She could not hear anything, his words were nothing but white noise. A shaky sigh left her full lips as she blinked once, twice, thrice. Her mind replayed those four words. Closing her eyes for a moment, she listened to the song that resumed blending in with the background effortlessly. The woman then allowed her heart to calm down as she opened her eyes. Looking at him, she finally responded.

“Tell me more.” Her voice was firm but uncertain.

“Simeon’s life is at stake. He is going to fall.”

Slamming her hands against the wooden table, she stood up from her seat. The chair fell to the laminate flooring with a loud thud, yet no one paid attention to it. Their eyes were still on her as every one of them heard. “I have to go,” muttered under her breath.

Taking a sip of his alcoholic beverage, Solomon continued watching the entire scene with great amusement. His eyes followed his companion’s figure as she left their favorite bar, the young angel running after her.

Once he had heard a visit of an angel supposed to be a good omen, but now, he started to doubt the statement. A sly smirk danced across his handsome facial features as his hand started glowing, surrounded by the dim golden illumination. With a flick of his hand, the golden light spread throughout the small bar. “Always making me do the dirty work.”

How hypocritical of him to speak such words. Solomon was fully aware of it, but he could not care less about it. He had always been more of a spectator than a player. It was a mutual agreement. She had his back, and in return, he was always there to aid her. A perfect symbiosis between two human beings. He was quite proud of his achievement.

The judgement had been passed.

An angel had been cast out of heaven.

He had fallen.

Standing in front of the familiar castle, the darkness of the night concealed her figure rather well. Her hands shaking, her breathing ragged as she was on the verge of losing her consciousness, yet she held herself perfectly. Her nerves betrayed her as she dropped to her knees, her legs refusing to assist her. Digging her manicured nails into her own skin, her gaze lingered on the Demon Lord’s Castle. Her vision blurred. Blinking several times to adjust her vision, but she could not. She had not realized how tears trickled down her cheeks, soaking the soil beneath her. When was the last time she cried? She could not recall. Her pulse skyrocketed.

Her mask was cracking without her noticing it. The beating of her heart could be heard from kilometers away. She should have known, yet she did not deem necessary to pay any heed to it. Now, he had to pay the price. He already had. Lowering her head in shame, her hair covered her disheveled appearance and expression.

Attempting to stand up, she teetered. The woman mentally embraced herself for a possible impact, but it never came. Looking up, her eyes met with his. His arms were wrapped around her waist to catch her. Draping her arm around his shoulders, she balanced her shivering body as she tested her legs. This time her legs did not betray her as she leaned against him. He did not reject her physical contact. Laughing bitterly, she straightened herself and opened her chapped lips to start speaking. “Impeccable timing as always, Barbatos. You’re always there to witness my failures. You have seen both of them. Would this answer your eternal question of what it means to be a human and hurting someone you love?”

“He has been waiting for you. Forgive my curiosity, but how long have you been in the Devildom without anyone being aware of it? How did you manage to convince the Young Master to permit you to remain here?”

Assisting her to stand up, he bombarded her with so many questions, she did not have enough time to process every one of them. It was quite uncommon for the demon butler to question people, yet the woman in front of her was a different occasion. He was one of the most powerful demons in existence, yet he still had difficulty understanding human nature and how this woman’s mind functioned. Inspecting her unkempt appearance, he noted she had seen better days.

Separating from his strong grip, she stretched her limbs and wiped her tears away. Inhaling the fresh air to calm her beating heart down, she pushed her hair back and tilted her head. Biting her lower lip—a rather familiar habit of hers to which even Barbatos got accustomed to. She thought for a moment, she was stalling some time. She could have easily used a question dodging technique, but she decided to tell the truth.

“You and I both know you are already fully aware of my current predicament. Is there anything you wish to know?” Those undertones of mockery were remarkable, considering her current situation. Quirking a brow, she studied the demon butler as an infamous smirk of hers tugged at the corners of her lips. “I thought we had a mutual understanding here.” Stopping herself for a moment, she shook her head to dismiss her useless thoughts. Straightening her back, she looked at him and added the last part. “My egotistical desires led us to this irrevocable act. I should have known. I did, yet I did not do anything.”

The last part of her speech was barely audible, but the demon butler heard every word of it. Nodding his head in acknowledgement, he placed his chin between his gloved thumb and index finger, he appeared as if he was thinking. He opened his mouth to start speaking. “This is not my place to meddle; however, do you regret your decision of getting involved with him?”

A low, bitter laugh escaped her full, yet chapped lips. Her eyes glinted with an unreadable expression, once more, he had difficulty comprehending her emotions. He decided to await her response before jumping to conclusions. That smirk of hers still present on her gorgeous features. Several dreadful seconds passed before she responded.

“How could I?” She stopped, once more, allowing the silence to reign. “I have made many foolish choices in my God-forsaken life, but loving him is something that I would never regret.” Looking up at the darkened sky, she resumed. “It’s quite ironic, I’m telling my life story to a demon who doesn’t give a flying fuck about me. Look, how low I have fallen.” Her every word was dripped with venomous self-hatred.

“Unfortunately, you are not wrong; however, I’m not the only listener you have tonight.”

Casting a glance at the demon butler, she noticed another dark figure standing behind Barbatos. Under normal circumstances, she would have easily detected an unwanted presence looming into her field of vision. It seemed she was too absorbed in her self-pity not to let her guard down. Her mask had slipped. She realized it a long time ago, but it was too late. It had always been too late for her.

Furrowing her brows, she did not say anything as she patiently awaited the figure to reveal themselves. The woman already had her suspicions, yet she refused to believe her own intuition as her heart skipped a beat. She could not shake her head or dismiss her useless thoughts as she did, not long ago. Her entire body was frozen in one place, she had no desire to move. Inhaling and exhaling, her chest was rising and falling. Mentally, she tried to deceive her mind to calm her rapidly beating heart, but to no avail. Her heart rejected her attempts, becoming an obstinate vital organ.

The tall figure stepped forward, revealing himself in the dim moonlight. Her breath hitched as she stepped backwards. It was him, the most magnificent creature in this damned world. A genuine smile decorated his handsome face as his brilliant shade of blue shone—in the darkness of the night—brighter than ever. A pair of midnight black wings were folded tightly against his back as a pair of black horns protruded out of his skull, completing his ethereal beauty.

Simeon stepped forward, but she moved backwards. Her gaze shifted between him and the demon butler. Her heart was wrenching, the feeling of regret was getting unbearable. She watched how Barbatos turned on his heel and disappeared into the darkness. As expected, he always did it. It would be no different in this situation.

She stopped moving, raising her head up, her grief-stricken eyes met with his. His smile grew wider as he approached her. Without wasting any moment, he wrapped his arms around her, embracing her tightly as if he was afraid of waking up in a world where she did not exist. Placing her head against his chest, she listened to his heartbeat. It was not quickened like hers, it was as serene as the melody of their wicked ballad. She refused to stand idly, but she could not touch him. Her consciousness did not allow her to reach for the stars.

He could sense her distress, but he was fully aware of her internal conflict. As much as he could remember he had always been fascinated with human nature, how different they were from angels and demons. Humans always had a knack for making their lives more difficult and he had a perfect opportunity to witness such an event with his own eyes. Ironically, he could relate to her struggles. He understood her.

Hiding his face in the crook of her neck, he whispered. “I forgive you.” Wrapping his large wings around her form, he shielded her from the harsh weather of the Devildom.

Three words. It only took three words to lift all of her burdens off her shoulders. A shaky sigh escaped her chapped lips as she snaked her arms around his torso, tightening her grip on him. Her heartbeat started to quiet, inhaling the fresh air did not burn her lungs anymore, and her tense body relaxed. After all these years, she had finally found her place.

“I know.”

49 notes · View notes

scarlettrhettelizabethrichard · 4 years ago

Text

Chapter 1. Duncan Fashion, my GWTW fanfiction The Robillard Boutique

Charleston, May 1876

Excitement was building in Charleston's good society. At last, they would be able to meet the handsome heir to the most venerable and ancient family in the Deep South and certainly one of the wealthiest families in America.

So many mysteries surrounded Duncan Vayton, the great benefactor of the Cause and the new prince of fashion. *****

Paris, France, 1859 Duncan Vayton had left Charleston after graduating from West Point with flying colors. The future was open to him. His parents were excited to see him take over Soft South, the largest cotton plantation in South Carolina. They were even more excited about the prospect of their only son starting a family.

Duncan had other desires. Europe was opening its arms to him. American cotton from the Southern States, "King Cotton" as it was known, was wreaking havoc across the continent. Europeans imported 3,000,000 bales of the precious textile raw material every year.

It is under these favorable skies that the southern planter was welcomed with open arms by the French businessmen.

Upon his arrival, the young Duncan made an appointment with a major textile entrepreneur, Roger Dax, importer of a large quantity of Soft South's production. A first visit to the Dax woollen mill in Roubaix intrigued him. As a young man, he had ridden the miles of cotton fields to the point of mastering all the steps and hazards of growing and harvesting cotton. Therefore, he became interested in the techniques of transforming the bales into finished products.

Roger Dax was happy to show him his latest looms. He became familiar with the notions of carded cycle, beating, loader, drawing bench, spindle bench or worsted cycle. To perfect his knowledge, he visited the greatest textile factories in France and England, and was curious about the mechanical innovations of weaving.

His decision was made to join forces with his French friend, to bring him a substantial working capital and the energy of young America in order to transform the Dax family spinning mill into a textile factory aiming to compete with the largest French companies.

Of course, the master of Soft South had decided to supply himself with raw materials primarily from his family Plantation, ensuring also a substantial market share to his neighboring planters in the South. He could thus guarantee to his European customers, with full knowledge of the facts, a first quality cotton.

In order to distinguish themselves from other French linen manufacturers by the quality of the hems and trimmings, the two partners then secured the exclusivity of the best embroiderers installed in the North of France.

Vayton & Dax quickly established themselves in the lucrative market for embroidered tablecloths and monogrammed sheets. Their products were featured in the catalog of the famous Parisian store "Bon Marché". Advertising inserts were published in popular newspapers for the family. It became fashionable to enrich any wedding trousseau of young ladies of good society with the indispensable linens stamped "Vayton & Dax". ***

Charleston, 1861

At the first rumors of a probable conflict between the North and the South in early 1861, the Charlestonian enthusiastically left comfortable Europe to defend the values of his beloved South. When the Confederate States announced their entry into the war, the young man joined his army corps, swollen with confidence in the victory of the Cause.

From his first review of the troops, he realized how poorly equipped his soldiers were in uniforms. While the gray garment was adorned with flashy gold buttons, the fine canvas seemed, to the expert eyes of the textile professional, far too light to withstand the rigors of combat in what was sure to be a long war.

Unlike the Yankees, the Confederate States had a severe lack of cotton mills to transform their cotton production into clothing for their soldiers. So much so that, when the blockade no longer allowed General Lee's army to resupply itself, Lieutenant-Colonel Duncan Vayton contacted his French associate Roger Dax in Roubaix, and undertook to have his personal funds used to manufacture tightly woven pants and jackets to guarantee better waterproofing.

To repatriate this production to the battlefields of the southern army, he had to contact a blockade breaker. He was advised the best, the most intrepid, and therefore also the most expensive, a certain Rhett Butler.

An exchange of messages made him realize that invoking solidarity to the Cause among Charlestonians in order to lower the astronomical transportation rates had no chance of moving Captain Butler. Like the other blockade-breakers, he favored the transport of luxury goods which he would then sell at a high margin. Monopolizing valuable yardage for the benefit of the Army was a waste for these war profiteers. Duncan felt a deep contempt for this character.

When the defeat of the South was inevitable, Lieutenant Colonel Duncan Vayton, a great military strategist like his West Point professors, always on the front lines of battle, had won the unconditional admiration and respect of his men.

At the end of the war, Duncan helped his parents restore their plantation, which had suffered less than most of their friends.

Then he decided to go back to France. To the great despair of Cathleen and Aymeric Vayton. They had hoped so much that their only son would marry and give them an heir. Duncan would always reply, "Later, maybe someday.“

It wasn't for lack of opportunity to marry an attractive Southern belle: Duncan was, without a doubt, one of the most handsome men in Charleston. Tall, slender, with curly golden hair, deep blue eyes, a frank smile that emphasized a fine mustache, and a warm voice... In a few words, the perfect Prince Charming.

For Cathleen and Aymeric Vayton, any visit to Charleston by Duncan was an opportunity for grand receptions. Only the most respectable families were invited. Those with young daughters to marry were privileged. Any young beauty in bloom would shudder when she met Duncan's azure gaze. He would offer a smile, a dance, a compliment, a bow. With the assurance of a broken heart for his young admirer.

Yet Duncan was not dry-hearted. He loved his family deeply, his parents and his younger sister Melina, and was not stingy in his displays of affection for them. His Mammy, who had raised two generations of Vaytons, marveled at his big heart.

As for love... Duncan was discreet about his love affairs. His pre-war Parisian life had allowed him to blossom sexually... without obligation. Blondes, brunettes or redheads, they had to be sweet, loving, and above all without any desire to marry. He often preferred young married Parisian women. An exchange of pleasure guaranteed without constraint.

So Duncan was happy to resume his comfortable carnal habits upon his return to Europe in 1865. ***

Paris, 1865 His professional fulfillment was beginning to wane. Managing his flourishing textile company in France was no longer of much interest. He was only interested in creation and innovation. Roger Dax was not surprised that his American friend entrusted him with the management of their company.

The teachers who had trained him since childhood had initiated him very early to the knowledge of arts. The beauty of forms and the shimmer of colors intrigued him. The old Europe and its cradle of culture was an infinite resource of visual pleasure. Architecture, sculpture and painting, even the originality of wallpapers in vogue in private salons, everything was a pretext to titillate his intellectual curiosity.

This same attraction to beauty was of course expressed in the woman's body, her sinuous curves and the fabrics that highlighted them.

Inevitably, this thought process led him to take an interest in women's clothing. He eagerly embarked on a new adventure, luxury clothing.

To do this, the aesthete chose the most shimmering silks from India and the Far East, the softest cashmere wools, and the finely chiseled lace from the lacemakers of Calais. He selected the best milliners and mother-of-pearl button makers. A large, bright and ventilated workshop was reserved for the "little hands" responsible for inlaying pearls and brilliants on the most delicate fibers.

Designers and seamstresses were hired to join the venture. Revolutionary sewing machines made it easier for Duncan to produce handmade goods and let his imagination run wild.

The Duncan style, combining elegance, colors and sinuous curves, was born. His showroom on Rue de la Paix in Paris was named "La Mode Duncan".

Luck continued to protect him when he met the Empress Eugenie's milliner at a social dinner. The undeniable charm of the young American attracted the curiosity of the lady of the court. An appointment was made for a visit to the workshop and the presentation of the most beautiful models. The meeting was productive, followed by substantial orders. "La Mode Duncan" was launched.

Her designs were featured in the famous women's magazine "La Mode Illustrée" and in more specialized magazines such as "Le Journal des Marchandes de Mode". Other of her creations, more accessible to the budgets of the petty bourgeoisie, appeared each year in the Catalogue of « Le Bon Marché ». Dresses, petticoats and hats from this new fashion house were snapped up.

"La Mode Duncan" had finally succeeded in imposing its fame and equalled the notoriety of the greatest Parisian couturiers.

Everything was going well for him. Until that day in December 1874, and the telegram from Cathleen. His father had died of a heart attack. His duty was to return to his family.

#fanfic #fanfiction #gwtw #clark gable #gone with the wind #romance #novelist

7 notes · View notes

joseph-marc-blumenthal · 3 years ago

Text

The path that François Pinault followed

The path that François Pinault followed is worthy of admiration - from a simple worker at his father's sawmill, to a world-famous entrepreneur and art collector. Today, the Pino family's fortune is estimated at billions of dollars. He is one of the few people who had a personal phone number for French President Jacques Chirac. And he, according to rumors, provided comprehensive support to the business person - after all, Francois once saved his life.

Wood business

François Pinault was born on August 21, 1936, in a small French village in the province of Brittany, in the family of a timber merchant. The boy's studies were of little interest. In addition, in college, he was often teased because of his rural accent and peasant origin. At 16, he stopped attending classes and helped his father.

In 1956, François enlisted in the army - uprisings began in Algeria, which was a French colony. In the military service, he earned start-up capital to start his own business, but the money came in handy only after a few years. Two years later, after returning home, Pino, on the recommendation of his father, got a job in a company selling timber.

In 1962, François married Louise Gaultier, daughter of the owner of the company, and soon ran the business himself. The company was renamed the Pinault Company, and they made large financial investments into it, including by Pino himself. However, the marriage did not last long: the couple divorced five years later, although they already had three children - François-Henri, Dominique, and Lawrence. Pino had to pay compensation to the Gaultier family, but he remained with the company.

In the early 70s, he began buying dozens of small firms on the brink of bankruptcy across the country in order to expand his concern. The takeover scheme was simple: he waited for the company's value to fall to a minimum, then bought it. He used the same principle later for market giants.

In those same years, Pino made a deal that brought him impressive profits. He unexpectedly sold his successful company for 25 million francs but kept 20% of the shares. While in the position of CFO, François placed a gigantic order for timber, which caused a real collapse in the market. Material prices plummeted, but to cancel the awful order, the new owners of the company would have to pay an extortionate fine. Since they did not have the named amount, they agreed to sell the Pinault firm for 5 million francs.

And this is not the only example of François Pinault's entrepreneurial ability. In 1974, he predicted or received from reliable sources information about the change in the price of sugar. Pinault invested 300 thousand in the business and earned 10 million francs on it.

Around the same time, François remarried. His chosen one was Maryvonne Campbell, an antique dealer. She introduced the future billionaire to the art world. Pino became interested in this area of investing money and bought world masterpieces of painting.

Abrupt course change

François Pinault's logging business was on its feet when, in 1988, he decided to radically change direction and began investing in various retail companies. He bought a majority stake in several companies: the CFAO distributor in Africa, Conforama home furnishings chain, Printemps department store, La Redoute mail-order store, and books and electronics firm FNA. In 1993, they renamed Pino to Pinault-Printemps-Redoute, and in 2005, PPR.

A year earlier, in 1992, the business owner created the holding company Artémis to manage the investments of the Pino family. They the news magazine Le Point in 1997, Christie's in 1998, and the Ponant cruise line in 2015. Now the holding also controls wine production in Château Latour, Clos de Tart, Domaine d'Eugénie, Château Grillet, Eisele. Another investment Pinault - football club "Rennes", winner of the French Cup: they bought him in 1998.

By the end of the 90s, the luxury industry became the primary interest of Francois Pinault. So, in 1999, Pinault-Printemps-Redoute bought a controlling stake in Gucci Group for $3 billion and Yves Saint Laurent. In 2000, Pinault gained the French jewelry company Boucheron, 2001 - Balenciaga, and the British fashion house Alexander McQueen. In the press, the business owner has even nicknamed the octopus: he bought up any companies and brands that seemed promising to him.

In 2003, the elderly billionaire handed over the management of his companies to his eldest son François-Henri, who is no less famous in business circles. The successor of the family business did not deviate from the planned course and gained the brands Brioni, Girard-Perregaux, and Pomellato. In 2013, PPR changed its name to Kering. The entrepreneur's son is also famous for his marriage to actress Salma Hayek.

Billionaire personality

Joseph Marc Blumenthal described François Pinault as a very tough and domineering leader. For example, after buying another company, he could not hesitate to cut almost all staff, and the first to cut its top managers. In such situations, the interests of business, not people guided solely by the entrepreneur.

Pinault was always very proud of his friendship with French President Jacques Chirac. Back in the 60s, the business person met a junior official, Jacques, and after that, while in prominent government positions, François provided tangible support. So, in 1981, Pinault gained a state-owned timber processing company for only 1 franc. All this is because the entrepreneur dissuaded Chirac from a dangerous trip on the train, which was later blown up by terrorists.

After handing over the management of the companies to his son, François focused on art. Now his collection includes about five thousand works of famous masters - Pablo Picasso, Pete Mondrian, Andy Warhol, and Jeff Koons. However, Pino approaches collecting from the point of view of benefits - investments should bring income. The billionaire even conceived of creating a large museum to house his art collection. The collection will be on display at the Paris Bourse, and the exhibition is scheduled to open in the spring of 2021.

The Pino family is also involved in charity work. In 2019, they allocated 109 million dollars for the restoration of Notre Dame Cathedral after the fire, in 2018 - contributed significantly to the restoration of Victor Hugo's house. Earlier, in 1990, the billionaire took part in the restoration of Burned down French forests, in 2000 he provided financial help to the islands of Brittany, affected by a spill of hazardous substances after the sinking of the oil tanker "Erica".

The figure of François Pinault causes the most controversial rumors in society. On the one hand, he is a successful entrepreneur who built a business empire, although he himself was from a simple peasant family. They say that in order to achieve success, Francois did not disdain dubious and even illegal transactions. In 2020 the Pinault family is ranked 27th on the Forbes list. Her fortune is estimated at $27 billion.

Quotes

"My competitors will either die themselves or I'll eat them."

"My only diploma is a car license."

#Vivian Blumenthal #BluLife #Joseph Marc Blumenthal

2 notes · View notes

impressivepress · 4 years ago

Text

What Charlie Chaplin Got Right About Satirizing Hitler

The Great Dictator—Charlie Chaplin’s masterful satire of Adolf Hitler—began filming in September 1939, right at the start of World War II. By the time it was released in 1940, the Axis had been formed, and Nazis were already occupying much of France.

The threat was not at all abstract: critic Michael Wood notes that the movie premiered that December, in London, amid German air raids. The following December, of 1941, would yield its own devastating threats from the air—this time on American soil, which would clarify for Americans the realness of this war by bringing it home.

It was, in other words, a strange moment to be making a comedy about Adolf Hitler—even a satire holding him to account, and even one in which Chaplin himself, who was at that point one of the most famous movie stars in the world, famous for playing the ambling, lovable Little Tramp, took on the role of Hitler. In 1940, Germany and the US had yet to become enemies; feathers, it was worried, would be ruffled by a movie like this. But Chaplin was already unwittingly bound up in the era’s iconographies of evil. His likeness, the Little Tramp, with that curt mustache and oddly compact face of his, had already become a visual reference for cartoonists lampooning Hitler in the press. And he was already on the Nazis’ radar: the 1934 Nazi volume The Jews Are Looking At You referred to him as "a disgusting Jewish acrobat." Chaplin wasn’t Jewish. But he was frequently rumored to be. And when he visited Berlin in 1931, he was mobbed by German fans, proving that his popularity could surpass even the growing ideological boundaries of a nascent Nazi Germany—hence their hatred.

Chaplin was aware of all of this—and of the fact that he and Hitler were born only four days apart, in April of 1889, that they had both risen out of poverty, and that they had enough points of biographical comparison, overall, to spook any sane person. Let’s not overstate their similarities: One of these men would go on to make the world laugh, and the other would go on to start a world war and facilitate the Holocaust. Humorously, that split would come to be echoed in The Great Dictator. Chaplin does double duty, playing the movie's two central roles. One, the character of Adenoid Hynkel, is a Hitler spoof by way of a short-tempered and preposterously powerful personality, a dictator of the fictional country Tomainia. And in the opposing corner, Chaplin offers us a variation on his classic Little Tramp, a Jewish barber who saves a high-ranking officer’s life in World War I and, after a plane accident and years of recovery in the hospital, wakes up to the seeds of World War II being sewn in his country.

The Great Dictator is a classic for a reason. It's startling in its depictions of violence, which stand out less for their outright brutality than for how memorably they depict the Nazis’ betrayal of everyday humanity. And it's renowned as well as for its resourceful and original humor, which combines Chaplin at his most incisive and balletic with raucous displays of verbal wit. This was Chaplin’s first sound film; his previous feature, the 1936 masterpiece Modern Times, was by the time of its release considered almost anachronistic for being a silent film in a sound era. Dictator avails itself of this technological progress, making perhaps its most successful bit out of the way Hitler speaks, the melange of rough sounds and brutish insinuations that have long made footage from his rallies as fascinating as they are frightening.

The Great Dictator understands Hitler as a performer, as an orator wielding language like the unifying, galvanizing power that it is. But it also understands him as a psyche. This of course means it’s full of what feel like sophomoric jokes, gags in which Hitler’s insecurities, his thirst for influence, his ideological inconsistencies (an Aryan revolution led by a brunette?) and zealous dependency on loyalty come under fire. It isn’t a psychological portrait, but nor is it so simple as a funhouse treatment of the coming war, all punchline and distortion.

It’s all a bit richer than that, which might be why The Great Dictator is on my mind this week, as we greet the release of Taiki Waititi’sJojo Rabbit, a movie in which Waititi himself plays Adolf Hitler, not quite in the flesh, but rather as imagined by a little Nazi boy who’s fashioned him into an imaginary friend. I’m not crazy about Waititi’s movie, which is less a satire than a vehicle for unchallenged moral goodness in the face of only barely-confronted evil. But it does, like Chaplin’s film, nosedive into the same problems of representation and comedy that have plagued movies since early in Hitler’s reign. Should we satirize genocidal maniacs? Can we laugh at that? And if so, can the line we usually toe between comedic pleasure and moral outrage—a mix that comes easily to comedy, in the best of cases—withstand something so inconceivable a mass atrocity?

That Chaplin’s movie succeeds where Waititi’s fails is a fair enough point, but comparing most comedians’ work to Chaplin’s more often than not results in an unfair fight. What matters are the things we can all still learn from Chaplin’s work, down to the fact that it so completely and unabashedly honors and toys with the public’s sense of who he is. This wouldn’t be nearly as interesting a movie if the Jewish barber hadn’t so readily recalled the Little Tramp. But because of this familiarity, The Great Dictator feels much the way movies like Modern Times did: like a story about the travails of an every-man who’s suddenly, with no preparation, launched headlong into machinery too great, too complex, too utterly beyond him, for it not to result in comic hi-jinks.

That’s the how barber’s first scenes out of the hospital, as beautifully staged and timed by Chaplin, feel: like watching the Little Tramp turn a corner and walk, completely unaware, into a world war. He sees "Jew" written on his barbershop, for example, but because he’s an amnesiac just released from the hospital, he has no idea why it’s there, and starts to wash it away. This is illegal, of course, and when the Nazis try to tell them so, he, thinking they’re run-of-the-mill brutish anti-Semites, douses them with paint and runs away. Much of the humor, at least in the clearly-marked "Ghetto," where the Barber lives, plays out this way: a terrifying game of comic irony in which what the Barber doesn’t know both empowers and threatens to kill him.

The Hitler scenes, by contrast, are a ballet—at times almost literally—of alliances and petty tasks. The highlight must of course be a scene of Hitler alone, having just renewed his faith in his plan to take over the world, dancing with an inflated globe of the planet, bouncing it off his bum, posing like a pin-up on his desk as the globe floats airlessly skyward. You can’t help but laugh. But that laughter doesn’t mute the brooding danger of it. You see the globe, the ease with which he lifts it up, manipulates it, makes a game of it, and realize that this is precisely what a dictator wants. It's a guileless and child-like vision, from his perspective, of his own power.

The Great Dictator’s famous climax finds these two men merging, somewhat, into one. It’s a rousing speech ostensibly delivered by the Jewish barber, who (for reasons best left to the movie to explain) has been confused for Hynkel by the Nazis and is called upon to speak to the masses. And then he opens his mouth—and the man that emerges is Chaplin himself, creeping beyond the boundaries of character, satire, or even the artificial construct of a "movie," as such.

The speech makes a case for humanity in the face of grave evil. "We think too much and feel too little," Chaplin says. "More than machinery we need humanity. More than cleverness we need kindness and gentleness." You’ll recognize this theme—"more than machinery we need humanity"—throughout Chaplin’s work, and it rings especially true here. Chaplin emerges, fully human, as himself, breaking free of the film’s satirical trappings, to deliver one from the heart.

It’s a scene that plays well on its own, as a standalone speech. For a long while, it was hard to find a version online that hadn’t been modified with dramatic "movie speech" music by way of Hans Zimmer. Youtube comments imply a recent upswing in activity, of people finding the speech anew in the Trump era, and that makes sense. But the scene plays even more strangely, more powerfully, in context, where it’s less easily lent to meme-able political messaging, where it has to brush up against everything else in the movie that’s come before.

It’s startling, frankly. The Great Dictator’s tone to this point never feels so earnest. How could it, what with its balletic Hitler and its foreign dictatorships with names like Bacteria. From the vantage of 1940, Chaplin couldn’t quite see where the war would take us, and it remains the case that some of the film plays oddly—but all the more insightfully for it—today. What’s clear from its final moments, to say nothing of much of the rest, is the power in this tension. Insofar as it can sense but not see the future, you could say that The Great Dictator is a film made in a cloud of relative ignorance. Yet look at how much it says, how far it goes. It makes it hard to make excuses for films made since, which often have the benefit of hindsight yet little of substance to say about what they see in the rear view. We know more, much more, about Hitler today than we did in 1940. Why should we let anyone get away with saying less?

K. Austin Collins · October 18, 2019.

#film #Charlie Chaplin #adolf hitler #the great dictator #vanity fair

2 notes · View notes

mxpseudonym · 5 years ago

Text

A Generous Check

Pairing: Tommy x OFC

Summary: Tommy and his wife consider staying in

Length: 1162 words

Warnings: Cursing?

A/N: My first contribution to the Peaky Blinders fandom! I’m writing a longer story with Rose but this is a little piece that came from it. Enjoy!

Rose took a deep inhale and let the cool breeze from the open window carry smoke through the air. Driving to London that morning for a full day of meetings then back to Arrow House was the unpleasant end to her already hectic week. She got home and collapsed in the living room without her usual greetings to the house, letting the settee suck her in.

She didn't know how long she'd been laying there, but realizing the only thing between her and a long, hot bath was the maid’s bell just out of reach led her to smoke.

"We have a gala tonight.”

The short sentence, even spoken by the rugged, Brummie accent that usually made her heart melt, ruined her slice of serenity. She heard his footfalls come closer until he was leaning on the settee and looking down at her. Even with her eyes closed, his gaze was heavy.

“Is this the one for the councilman," she asked.

“No, it’s the fundraiser.” She took a drag when she didn't recognize it immediately, and her mind was too overworked to rack through itself. He tried again. “The one for the children, I believe.”

“Which children?”

“The children.” He repeated, making the corner of her mouth twitch upward. The toffs never knew what they were raising money for, and neither did anyone else.

“Ah, yes. I tell the Commissioner's wife off hand that ‘we’ll be at the next one, Isabel’ and now we’re going to spend a night keeping the toffs at bay.” Rose groaned as she thought back to her talk with the Commissioner's wife, socialite, and nitpicking drama queen, Isabel. Finally opening her eyes, she met the blue ones looking down at her with dark circles underneath. In a few hours, he’d be stifling yawns and incessantly clearing his throat to keep his eyes open.

“It’ll be over before you know it,” he said, though it was more of a means to comfort himself at that point.

“You look as tired as I feel.”

“I believe I got a pillow to the head the last time I said that to you,” he reminded her as she sat up and put out her cigarette.

“And don’t you forget it.”

It was already six o’clock, and the party started at eight. The concept of being fashionably late worked in their favor as they slowly went through the motions of putting themselves together. A tuxedo with cufflinks that matched a floor-length teal, beaded dress.

“You look fucking stunning.” Tommy wrapped his arms around her waist from behind as she looked in the mirror. Her dark hair was pinned up to reach her shoulders, and her makeup was smoky for the night ahead. He loved it when she wore her dark lipsticks and tonight’s was a deep plum.

“Thank you, Mr. Shelby.” She smiled at him teasingly through the mirror.

“Of course, Mrs. Shelby.” He buried his face in her neck as she put on her final diamond earring.

“I’m glad you like the dress. Isabel was talking my ear off about how she’s wearing red the other day, so I had to pick up a new one. If we look anything alike, she’ll start a bloody rumor about how much the gypsies love mimicking society folk,” she told him, laughing humorlessly as she shook her head.

He pulled her closer. Rose seemed to make strategic and meticulous choices amongst the women of high society on his behalf. From her dress to her jewelry that she made sure were only things he’d boughten her to show that Tommy Shelby spared no expense. He didn't think about these things, much less really understand them, but Rose did. It was one of the ways she looked out for him. She gave him a soft smile that told him she didn’t have her usual fire to ward off the comments about gypsies and criminals, but she’d do her best.

"I'm almost done if you want to call the car.” She sent him off. Fifteen minutes later, she expected to see Tommy straightening his tie in the foyer mirror and teasing her about taking her time. Instead, she found him in the living room the way he'd found her earlier.

His feet were kicked up onto the table, and his head was tilted back. He breathed deeply, and she hated to wake him since he rarely slept, but a few clicks of her heels were enough to jolt him. Never too far off from being awake. He cleared his throat and sat up as she placed her hands on her waist with a sigh.

“If we send a generous check,” Tommy said after a long moment of silence.

“And maybe a nice card,” she added.

“It’ll be just as good as if we were there,” he finished. They nodded in silent agreement before sitting back on the couch.

“You said you didn’t want anything." Rose giggled between words as Tommy grabbed her hand and redirected a spoonful of Raspberry trifle from her mouth to his.

“I did say that, didn’t I? Now, why the fuck would you ever listen to a fuckin’ scoundrel like me?”

After revealing he never actually called the car, Tommy's bowtie found its way to the table, and he'd pulled Rose's legs onto his lap to take off her heels before ringing the maid's bell for her. A fire, a dessert (one that Tommy initially denied wanting), and a hot bath were now all in the works thanks to Frances.

“I have no idea. I should get a doorman to keep the riff-raff out.” With another spoonful, he attempted redirecting her hand again, this time only getting halfway before Rose leaned forward and reclaimed it. They both broke out into childish laughter. As they calmed, Tommy leaned his forehead against hers, bringing a hand up to cup her cheek as he looked into her eyes. She returned his gaze in anticipation.

“I don’t want you to ever feel like you owe those fuckers anything. You don’t owe them your fucking presence and you sure as hell don’t need to dress for them. Especially not because of me,” he told her firmly but quietly. “I don't care about them; I care about you. If they talk, they talk. Let ‘em. Understand?”

The moments when Tommy reminded her to take care and feel loved were some of her favorites. She nodded and agreed, feeling content as they leaned back again. In a call for peace, Rose fed him a bite every so often and Tommy massaged her calves as they talked of Shelby family drama.

Frances went to announce that the bath was ready, but stopped with a smile. Tommy’s head was tilted back as he slept, and Rose rested on his shoulder. Frances knew Mr. Shelby’s work wasn’t all good or legal, but she couldn’t deny the sweetness she found between the Master and Mistress of her house. Some would even say it warmed her heart.

#Peaky Blinders Fanfic #Peaky Blinders Imagine #Tommy Shelby #Tommy Shelby Imagine #Tommy Shelby fic #Thomas Shelby #Thomas Shelby Imagine #Thomas Shelby Fic #Tommy Shelby x ofc #Thomas Shelby x ofc #Tommy Shelby one shot #m-pseudonym scribble scrabbles

175 notes · View notes

bat-besties · 5 years ago

Text

The Great (He)Art Heist

An art forger. An art thief. One last heist, then they never have to see each other again.

At least, that was the plan.

Roceit with art thief Roman and forger Deceit. - 8k

Edited and titled by the wonderful @rosesisupposes

Summary by @5-crofters-jams

AO3

The Mona Lisa was stolen by Vincenzo Peruggia on 21 August, 1911. Famous beforehand, the drama of the theft and celebration of its return is credited as the main reason for its fame.

The Ambassadors by Hans Holbein hangs in the National Gallery in London, and is considered to be one of the most technically accomplished Renaissance paintings.

Dorian found his name ironic, and greatly enjoyed that irony. It was why he'd changed it as he entered the murky world of fakes, forgeries and stolen pieces, to just his initial- “D.”- before a surname which sounded like it had also been lifted from the pages of a Victorian novel (because it had been): Mendax. Might as well be truthful about the fact he never was. The slightly arcane flair of it fit right in with his associates - St. John (pronounced 'sinjin', something it was embarrassing to learn by correction), de somethings, von somethings, double-barrels and echoes of fame- but even among them, he found 'Peruggia' a little on the nose.

But then 'Roman Peruggia' as he certainly was not legally named, had never seemed to acquire the subtlety Dorian had cultivated to survive.

Dorian knew he was not the best forger there was- he could name someone for each artist he knew who could beat him: Logos for M.C. Escher or the De Stijl movement, Andy Angel for heavy, brooding oil pieces, the list went on. But when it came to range he was unbeatable, and across the board he could copy so well that while they might not stand up to forensic examination, few had been suspicious enough to warrant that examination. He got the feel of the piece, that was the main thing. He wasn't a robot, he didn't copy lines down to less than a millimetre as Logos was rumored to do, he studied and daydreamed and looked at the paintings, he read about artists for pleasure as well as work, and when he was ready he let the mood of the painting overtake him. Loose brushstrokes or precise ones, sketched below the paint or freehanded, name any artist well-known enough for you to know them and he knew their technique.

He applied the same logic to himself. He fit in by careful planning and learned intuition. Which was why he was sitting in the café of the V&A in a checkered scarf and round tortoiseshell glasses with plain lenses, flicking through a sketchbook he'd lifted out of someone else's bag in the National Gallery a week ago. The owner was learning, and he supposed someone else might find that endearing. He didn't like the slight carelessness of the lines. He especially did not like one page where they'd given over to doodles, swirling flowers and eyes and curling armadillos. It wasn't neat, it wasn't nice, it wasn't respectful to a slightly-out-of-proportion Whistlejacket on the other page. He sipped at an overpriced coffee and closed the sketchbook. His contact was late.

A man slid into a chair by him, clattering a plate with a brownie on it. He grinned at Dorain. "Uh...Ethan, is it? Fancy meeting you here!" He did not look like one of the art students in the café as Dorian had taken such care to. He looked like an asshole.

Dorian smiled slightly. "Love the jacket, Tarquin. So tasteful."

The man ran a hand through coiffed hair and laughed. The jacket was bright red acrylic. His jeans were black and very, very tight, as was a T-shirt he was wearing with the name of a designer brand. "Oh, you think so? I saw the sale had ended on it and I was so sad but then I thought- why not! I have the money."

"Of course you do." Which was the point. Roman Peruggia had just completed a major job in New York, with the sale of the paintings rumored to be in the millions. His reputation for thievery and production of genuine paintings was flawless- a little red calling card left where paintings had been ensured that his work was clearly marked.

Roman picked up Dorian's sketchbook and flicked through it. "Ah, the master at work?"

"It's got all my work in it," Dorian said. "No item is more precious to me."

Roman's eyebrows raised, and he turned the pages slightly more slowly. "May I have a page of it?"

Dorian examined the nice leather gloves he'd chosen to compliment his disguise. "Rip it out, why don't you?"

Roman paused. "I...are you being sarcastic?"

"Totally," Dorian said in his most sarcastic tone, because Roman had been late and not kept to dress code.

Roman carefully tore out a page- Whistlejacket, with the doodles on the obverse.

"I was messing with you," Dorian said at the sight of the doodles. "That isn't mine."

"No?" Roman laughed awkwardly, as if he hoped Dorian was joking- or maybe he still thought he was. "These are cute!"

"I don't doodle. Not like that. You can have the whole thing, if you want it."

Roman made a mock serious face before laughing again. "So you don't doodle, you just make masterpieces from scratch?"

"Broadly."

"Huh." Roman sat back and started in on his brownie, pointedly not looking at Dorian as he waited for the next move.

"I presume you know," Dorian said. "Of a trick. Where one item is stolen, then multiple replicas are sold. Three, seven, eighteen- the price of that item multiplied over and over again."

He waited for a reaction, some affirmation or a comment, but Roman just licked the icing sugar from his fingers and watched Dorian. He couldn't read his expression yet, but he'd learn to.

"Of course, it's a dangerous game. In one case, the thieves even returned the diamond to the police. It might not seem as dashing as-"

"I have a reputation, Ethan." Red calling cards. Red jacket. Red lips, now Dorian noticed it. Lipstick, probably. Roman did have a reputation, yes. He must have enjoyed the work of constructing it. "I love the danger part of all this. But I don't do fakes."

"Then why did you agree to meet with me?"

"Curiosity, mainly," Roman said. "You have a reputation."

"Oh?" Dorian said, leaning forward just slightly. "And what is it about me that interested you?"

"You copied the Mona Lisa."

"So has everybody and their friend. I'm not special."

"It could have convinced me. None of the others could."

"It's not actually that complex," Dorian said. "There's one reason why it's so famous, one reason only...but you'd know all about that, wouldn't you, 'Peruggia'?"

Roman shook his head resolutely. He ignored the jab at his pseudonym. "I don't think it was just the theft. They talk about Mona Lisa smiles, don't they? There's something special about the painting."

Dorian rested his chin on his hands. "And what's that, do you think?"

Roman only shrugged. "I don't know! Isn't that the fun bit?" He looked Dorian up and down, the way he bled into the background. "I thought you might have something to tell me about it. And...I was wondering if I might purchase a copy."

Dorian laughed through his nose. "Not going to follow in the footsteps of your treasured ancestor and steal it yourself?"

"I look forward to doing so!" Roman said. "Nonnino would be so proud."

Dark eyes, dark hair- Roman could be Italian. He didn’t have a hint of an accent, but he might have been raised here. And the original art thief had had a daughter, Dorian had checked. But the lie was too far-fetched. It was as though Roman didn't care if he saw through it.

"Then why do you need a copy? If you're just going to steal the original yourself."

"I'm impatient!" Roman said. "That's all. I think..." But he popped the last of the brownie to stop himself from talking more.

"The Mona Lisa is worth $850 million." Dorian said. "If you could find a buyer who'd give you even half the price you'd be set for several lifetimes- in money, and in potential prison sentences."

"They don't give art thieves life!"

"How many paintings have you stolen, again?"

Roman crossed his arms. "Oh, very rich, coming from you!"

Dorian wrote small and personal speech in his head about why that was not the case, breathed in, erased it, and gave Roman the final and most important line. "I'm careful."

"You've also done enough for...oh, maybe one lifetime, either way. Why not quit while you're ahead? Set up a nice little art gallery of your own work in the South of France."

Dorian adjusted his fake glasses. "I don't do originals."

"Quite the man of mystery, aren't you?" Roman said. "Ok- what's your favourite work of art of all time?"

Dorian smirked at Roman. "You are, of course."

Funny, Roman's cheeks went red now too. But he wasn't completely naïve. "Oh! Ha! A sense of humour."

"Here's the deal," Dorian continued smoothly. "I want to continue with my copies, but I'm ready to quit while I'm ahead. It sounds like you need to prepare for quite the big heist. You steal a painting I'm about to show you, I make four copies, we each sell two and keep the money. I'll even throw in a Mona Lisa copy, and another two paintings if you want them. Then our ways part."

If Dorian had told Roman what the painting was, he would have politely declined and walked away right then. But he was curious, and he didn't think Dorian would tell him here. So instead they got up, passed the statues to get to the Tube tunnel- "I always enjoyed how this feels like a secret exit!" Roman said, and Dorian let himself smile before he said, "Me too."

⁂

"You've got to be shitting me," Roman said. They stood side by side in the airy light of the gallery.

"Why?" Dorian said. He'd pocketed the glasses, they were beginning to annoy him. "Is it too hard for you, Peruggia?"

"Just call me Roman," the thief said, stepping closer to the painting to examine it. "Isn't it too hard for you?"

It was The Ambassadors, taller than they were, realistic, old, and masterfully painted. Dorian shook his head, looking up at it critically. "Nope. It'll be time-intensive, though. I need you to wait for me."

"How much is it worth?"

"I'm not sure yet. Just four copies will set us up quite comfortably, I think."

Roman looked at the painting's heavy frame, at the security devices all around, at how far they were from the exits. It would be a challenge. Some might say it was impossible. But if you could get a mechanism in- maybe by posing as workers-

Fuck. He wanted this, now. He wanted to know that he could.

Dorian suggested that they find another anonymous place to meet up in, but Roman needed somewhere secure to dramatically explain his plan. He also wanted to see how the forgeries are coming along. Dorian reluctantly invited Roman to his studio.

His studio was white-walled and had a wooden floor bespattered with paint. It was covered in forgeries- his favourites, like a Monet and an obscure little Elizabethan portrait hidden among pieces purely for work. It was...innocent, maybe, in a way which didn’t fit the murky tones of the underworld they both inhabited. But that was the way the light fell through the high windows, not anything the thief would notice.

It should be fine. So Dorian tried to put off the worry about the night until he was leaving his apartment to get there a little early. Except- he had to get dressed. Neat silk shirts, casual jeans, anonymous business suit, a sweatshirt with a bearded dragon he couldn’t quite bring himself to give away. He could have reprised his art student disguise, but he wanted to be clear it was a disguise.

Maybe he should match the thief? He googled Roman's jacket, and found it after a while. The model in the picture had the exact same outfit Roman was wearing, down to the brand of the T-shirt. Dorian was clearly not the only one wearing a costume.

That emboldened Dorian. Nothing scares a liar more than the truth - he would know.

So when Dorian came to open the door for Roman, it was in costume from an obscure Victorian opera he bought from the black market. Black and yellow, a bowler hat and capelet, it was Gothic and exquisitely made, and, importantly, still a costume. Even if it was what he wanted to wear, even if it was how he wanted himself to be, he reminded himself it was originally a costume.

Roman stopped to take him in, looking him up and down from polished boots to his bowler hat. "You look...is that original era?"

Was that a hint of a flush on his face? Oh, he could not be straight. Dorian would bet his whole studio of fakes he was not. Which was the only reason he let Roman clearly see him return the once-over he gave him. And the only reason he said: "Not so bad yourself, Peruggia. Oh, and yes. It's quite genuine."

"Oh. Well, I'll have to...up my game next time we meet," Roman said. He was still in a relatively generic designer outfit, still in his signature red.

"I look forward to it," Dorian said without thinking too deeply about whether that was true. "Come on up."

Roman looked around the studio in excitement. "These are great! Can I touch one?"

"No!" Dorian was horrified. "Do you touch the paintings you steal?"

"Of course not!" Roman put an offended hand on his chest. "What do you think I am, Mendax, an amateur? But I want to do it and I can't and it's so frustrating! Like popping bubble wrap!"

Dorian pointed at the background on the large canvas he'd started The Ambassadors on. "Once."

Roman very carefully ran the tip of his finger over the paint before stepping back, satisfied. "Thank you! Now, let me get the blueprints out!"

He took Dorian through the complex plan he'd devised. He was smart, Dorian had to give him that, and willing to explain wherever Dorian got stuck. The one snag was the exact route on the way in. "I'll have to fix that up," Roman said.

Dorian nodded and stepped towards the door. "Sure, I'll see you-"

But Roman hadn't moved, he'd just pulled a pack of white pencils out of his jacket and started drawing on the plan. Dorian coughed behind him. "Should you be going?"

"Oh, this won't take long!" Roman said. "Just get some painting done if you're bored."

Dorian stepped over Roman's legs to his speaker. "I listen to music. Classical. I have to have that to concentrate, you can't speak to me." He needed the freedom of privacy. This was his space.

"I won't! What music do you like?"

In answer, Dorian turned on his speaker and turned back to his canvas, ignoring Roman. He began to paint, uncomfortably aware of the man behind him. Would he- he turned, suddenly, to see if the thief might have some master plan to steal Dorian's pictures, but all he saw was Roman sticking his tongue out of the corner of his mouth as he sketched. He turned back to his work.

An hour or so later, during the break between pieces, Roman quietly asked Dorian to come and look over the plans again. He explained the new route.

"When shall we meet again?" Dorian asked.

Roman shrugged. "I'm not quite sure, it might need fine-tuning. Maybe give me another hour?"

"Well, I'm famished," Dorian said. "I'm going out for dinner now. I can't leave you in here."

"How about you ask me to have dinner with you?" Roman said, rolling up his blueprints. "I'll get the check, since you let me use the space today."

So they went to a little Italian place where the owners knew Dorian by name - a fake name, of course, but the sentiment was appreciated.

And, when Dorian tried to trip Roman up by getting him to order in Italian (because this was business, and Dorian needed to call the shots in business) Roman answered perfectly, and began excitedly chatting with the waiter.

"I'm glad you've brought a friend, Declyn!" She grinned at him.

Roman laughed. "Is he usually a lonely diner?"

"Oh no, we have nice chats, but I've not met a friend before!"

Dorian kept his cool. This wasn't at all embarrassing. "He's not a friend," he said politely.

Dot and Roman's eyebrows raised in one movement.

"I'll leave you two to it!" she said, before bursting into the kitchen to tell Larry one of their regulars had a date.

Roman laughed at Dorian's expression as soon as she left. "Your face!"

Dorian let out a long-suffering sigh. "A slip of the tongue. Can we move on? To...anything which isn't that."

"Why don't you paint originals?" Roman asked, all casual innocence.

Dorian took a sip of water to stall. "A lot of painters could do replicas. But the paintings I do, proper forgeries, have to be perfect. The right brush strokes, the right colour, the right emotions. I have to be a chameleon, adapt to embody other artists. I don't want to lock myself into one style."

Roman was quiet. He didn't fidget as Dorian had expected, he just sat still and looked at Dorian for a while. Then he said, "That doesn't really make much sense."

Dorian's eyes narrowed. "No?"

"No." Roman gestured at Dorian's eccentric outfit. "Just because you like dressing like this, it doesn't mean you can't blend into the background with your stolen sketchbook other times. You can be yourself, as well as hiding. The two don't have to be discreet."

Dorian hummed noncommittally.

"Well? What do you think about that?"

He paused for a long moment before he opened his mouth. "I think-"

Dot bustled over with drinks and starters, and Dorian turned to her with a grateful smile.

"So...are we going to get a story, Declyn?" She put the drinks down deliberately slowly. "One sentence, I won't keep you guys long."

"We're colleagues with a shared art appreciation. Dreadfully mundane."

Dot knew her eccentric customer had a tendency towards sarcasm and opposites. So she just smiled knowingly before she left again.

Roman turned back to Dorian as soon as the kitchen door swung behind her. "What do you think about originals?"

"We should get our story straight before she comes back," Dorian deflected.

"Get it gay, don't you mean?"

Dorian gave him an unimpressed look; the smile didn't drop from Roman's face. "Come on," Roman said. "I had to do it. Let's see, I was devastatingly handsome, I courted you and you were spiky but then you fell-"

"-as of, oh, a month ago," Dorian finished smoothly. "Our first date was the V&A, of course."

"Oh it was, was it?" Roman said mischievously.

Dorian ran through a cycle of answers. In his art student disguise he'd be flustered, in a suit dismissive, in an art-show-fashionable dress he'd flirt back. He wasn't sure how a man in a Victorian opera costume should respond. Sing, probably. But he liked the idea of the dress, back in his apartment. It was red, like Roman. "You were smitten immediately," Dorian said with a smirk. "You tore a page out of my sketchbook and wore it in the pocket over your heart."

"I'm a thief," Roman said, stealing a piece of cheese from Dorian's plate. "You should be touched I asked permission first, I could have just taken it."

"You're not a thief in this story," Dorian reminded him.

"Ah, of course not," Roman said lightly. "Accountant pals, maybe?"

"That could work," Dorian said.

"Art enthusiasts, right?" Roman said. "Have you read about the cut to funding of arts classes pla-"

"There is nothing more indicative of society that is failing than classism in art-"

"I know right! It's not like-"

And then they were off, pausing only to thank Dot for their mains and barely pausing to eat- or breathe.

They got their dessert for free. A single tiramisu with two spoons. Roman paid for the rest of the meal.

Roman agreed to run the plans by Dorian three days later. He did. Then he laid his plans on the ground, and Dorian put music on, and they worked together again, despite Dorian's grumbling.

"You owe me for this, Peruggia."

"Mmm...dinner again?"

"I'm not making a habit of this."

But Dorian had always been a liar.

⁂

Six months later, neither knew each other's real name. But Dorian knew Roman loved Broadway, and had let slip he shared that love. A few too many references made it obvious Roman loved Disney, too. He said he liked Flynn Ryder, and Dorian rewatched Tangled that night. The day after their conversation about Broadway, Roman hummed 'Façade' from Jekyll and Hyde as he read up about how best to hack security cameras.

Roman stuck his tongue out when he concentrated. When Dorian took a break to stretch he went in time to his music, often without thinking. Roman bought whole sets of clothes off mannequins. It was easier, according to him. He declined the offer to look for actual clothes for himself. Dorian had a different name at every restaurant they visited. Roman had wanted to be an actor. Dorian had only ever wanted to paint. When Roman was stressed he was loud and big and full of nervous energy which needed to be burned off with a walk and giving him space to talk about everything and nothing. When Dorian got lost in the detail of the painting- it happened most often in the most minute detail - he wouldn't break for water or stretches or food. Roman had to steal his speaker and sometimes his brush to pull him away.

As the heist drew nearer, those little details seemed to take on greater weight. A few days before it, Roman became a notable absence in Dorian’s studio as he prepared. He would enter the building at eight, Dorian remembered, and he tried to paint as the clock chipped away at seven, five past, eight past, twelve past. His music tried to smooth the harsh seconds by dripping ornaments and glissandos over it, but even that became a distraction rather than letting him get in the right headspace like usual.

He flipped from the intense detail of a little landscape to preparing a frame. It wasn’t hard, but he didn’t feel like it was quite right. It was too easy to take his attention. He paced up and down his studio a few times, shaking out his hands. Without thinking, he reached for his phone and opened a news app to see if there was anything about the heist yet. Nothing.

If Roman got caught, as long as the thief didn’t tell, there was nothing to trace back to Dorian. And he wouldn’t tell. So there was no reason to worry. Sure, it was a waste of months of work on the forgeries but that was better than prison.

Dorian went over to look at the forgery. The small details had been hardest: Hans Holbein had written legible writing on even the tiniest of items. A whole cabinet of items to represent the two men and showcase their learning- he’d explained each one to Roman, at some point. The distorted skull was the hardest to do, but satisfying. He paced around it, seeing the skull form. Memento mori. “So,” he had said, “remember your place and don’t be proud. And be careful.” Roman had just laughed. “Ah, but remember...yolo. So don’t be too boring!”. Dorian laughed through his nose and shook his head. Roman was such an idiot, and he could be reckless. But he was a professional, he would return safe.

Dorian gave up on trying to concentrate and closed up the studio for the night, heading back on the Tube and letting his mind wander through the window and wonder in which style he would paint it. But the red lights of the signal, and a young woman in a designer T-shirt, and an advert for some kind of Disney on Ice event wouldn’t let him drift into the imagined simplicity of painting.

A few hours after he’d got home, his phone buzzed. He grabbed it from his side and opened it to see a single winking emoji from Roman. And he felt his insides go soft. And he knew it didn’t mean much, so he replied “Well done.” and let himself come down from his nerves to sleep. It didn’t mean much. It didn’t mean anything.

The theft broke on the news the next morning.

⁂

"I suppose this is goodbye, then," Dorian said, when Roman returned to his apartment the next day. "Don't miss me too much. Here she is-" He handed over a Mona Lisa copy. "And you can pick any other two. I like the Monet, personally."

"I do too," Roman said. "But that one's your favourite-"

Dorian laughed unconvincingly. "Oh, no, I-"

"You look at it when you're stressed. Like you want to be a little lilypad floating somewhere I can't annoy you," Roman teased.

"Would that I were," Dorian replied with a roll of his eyes and a slight smile. He was relieved in some ways, but it kind of hurt to have Roman reject the piece of himself he tried to give him.

"No, I'll take the Picasso, I like that new one!"

"Very nice. And the third?"

Roman didn't put on a show of casualness, he knew just what he was asking. "For the third, I'd like an original piece."

"What of, exactly?" Dorian asked, distant and cool.

Roman persisted. "Whatever you like."

The forger looked at his studio of replicas, like old friends, at his paints, his brushes, his paint-splattered speaker. Then he looked at Roman. His honest eyes, his liar's mouth, his impersonal armour of an outfit.

"I'm going to paint you."

Roman's eyes widened. "What- how?"

Dorian tilted his head and assessed him. "Come dressed how you'd like to be painted. Don't waste my time with $40 T-shirts and such. Wear red."

"The colour of love," said Roman with a grin, because Dorian had wrong-footed him.

"The colour of blood," said Dorian, because he needed the last word.

And because Roman wouldn't let him, he carefully put each painting under his arm and on the way out he asked Dorian if he'd seen Titanic, and Dorian rolled his eyes, and they got caught on the question of the male gaze and how much room was on that raft for an extra twenty minutes.

Roman arrived in a prince's costume. No crown, just his natural curly hair. The jacket was white, technically, but the red sash was...perfect. The red cape was perfect. The gold and white were perfect. Of course, Dorian reflected, saying so would only give Roman a window to tease him and he was already so nervous but- "I stole this whole ensemble from the V&A costume vault! Ah, memories."

He laughed. "You look- perfect."

Roman blushed, slightly, and Dorian laughed again. "Keep that red, darling, I have a theme for you." He'd set a stool up by a white wall, but the colour didn't quite work right with the prince outfit, they didn't contrast..."Could you lay down on the floor?"

"I am not getting paint on this!"

"Fine-" Dorian circled his studio a few times before holding his hand out. "Your cloak, please."

Roman took it off. Dorian hung it from some of the many picture-hooks on the wall, creating a backdrop. "Sit down, just there."

Roman did so, and Dorian tilted his head to assess him. The red made him stand out, but the sash was like a slash across his chest, like he was so much himself he was tearing apart. That couldn't be further from the truth. He took the cloak down again, not speaking to his sitter, and stepped back again.

The white kind of fading into the background, the red strong and vivid...that could work. Roman, bold and vibrant, letting his edges blur into the background...but there needed to be something more.

Dorian handed Roman a stem sharp with red gladioli flowers and positioned his hand to hold it like a sword, then shook his head. He stuck the tongue out of the corner of his mouth then put his hand over Roman's and moved them to be positioned over his heart. Better. Not perfect. And this had to be perfect.

Roman laughed softly and mirrored Dorian's expression, poking his tongue out of his mouth. "Copying my expressions now too?"

"Oh?" Dorian closed his mouth. "I didn't realise."

"'S cute," Roman teased.

"Thank you," Dorian said, leading Roman back up from the stool and into the middle of the studio. "And you've given me an idea. I'm sorry about the costume, maybe you can commission a copy from Pat Morgan with all that money you have now. Her work is lovely, they'll make something even realer than the original."

"I don't want a copy," Roman said, lying down on dusty paint stains and propping up his head on his chin to look up at Dorian. "If this one is ruined...so be it. Make me look beautiful in it! Maybe, just, accentuate my cheek bones a little-"

"No," Dorian said gently. "Now, kick your legs up behind you, and hold your flowers just under your chin- finger underneath your chin- There you are, just perfect."

"For the final touch..." Dorian went into Roman's shoulder-bag and pulled out a collection of plans and maps, spreading them on the floor in front of him, as though he'd just looked up. He laughed when he saw a few stacks of notes tied in bundles of thousands of dollars loose in the bag with them. He put a few among the plans. "A status symbol," he said. "Like in The Ambassadors."

"I'm my own status symbol."

"Oh, of course you are," Dorian purred.

"Now, you'll need to hold that there," Dorian said, turning a canvas around. "And I'm not sure which music would fit the mood. We'll have to be quiet."

"Alas!" Roman said. "I shall be dreadfully bored, just lying here!"

"Dinner afterwards," Dorian said. "I'll pay. Just hold that for an hour or so, think about all the ways you'll spend your money. Then - does Italian sound good?"

"Only if we get tiramisu,” Roman said with a little grin.

"We can only do that if you can convince Dot to bring two rather than one big one with two spoons."

Roman hummed. "Nope!"

"What?"

"Sharing is caring, Dorian Gay!"

"Pardon?" Dorian asked sharply.

"You know, like Dorian Grey? Okay, maybe you're Basil and I'm Dorian- but the thought kinda stands- you are gay, right?"

"Completely," Dorian said and turned his back to select a brush. "One tiramisu should be fine."

So Dorian painted in silence, looking at Roman. And Roman went red at his little glances and checks, just like Dorian wanted. Dorian didn't tease him for it, just reached for a line of red paints he'd set aside before and began mixing. Roman watched him, as he painted. He wasn't too sure if he should have kept a single expression, so he experimented a little. "Do you think I should wink? That could be hot."

"I know which expression I'm doing. I don't think I need help, but I'll tell you if so."

They went for dinner. Roman changed into a red sweatshirt and jeans for it. They shared a tiramisu and a bottle of wine and a round of inside jokes. The next day Dorian painted him again. Dinner that night was Chinese. Roman wore a T-shirt reading 'Clap if you believe in fairies'. When he got excited when a kid clapped at him and Dorian changed his mind about which expression he wanted to paint for a split-second. He was wearing a slightly oversized red sweatshirt because Roman had been boasting about how good a thief he was but hadn't been watching his bag.

They had to wait a week before they met up again, since they were selling the paintings, and they celebrated in The Ivy in Central London. They went to a musical afterwards. They didn't make eye contact during the love songs.

The painting was done in a month. Roman was bursting with curiosity by then, but he resisted trying to sneak a peek at it.

Finally, the day came.

The painting was light and airy, real details blurred as if by nostalgic memory. Except for Roman. He was just subtly bolder than his surroundings, colours brighter, lines more defined. He looked down at his plans, tongue poked out in concentration as his hair fell into his face. The flowers were an elegant slant which outlined the shape of his face and centred that everyday expression of his. He looked beautiful. He looked exactly how Roman felt when he was happy being himself.

A name signed the bottom corner on one of the plans: 'Dorian Smith'.

Roman took a long inhale of breath. He stepped closer and examined every careful brushstroke, every carefully chosen colour, every sign that...Dorian had made this, had painted this for him. "It's the most beautiful painting I've ever seen," he murmured.

"You really think so?" Dorian said quietly. His voice sounded vulnerable, open, and Roman realised he must have sounded the same.

Roman laughed softly. "Now you've given me your name, you know I'm going to have to steal it. Especially since you took more than just my face to do that portrait. I was right with your name after all, wasn't I?"

"I suppose," Dorian said. "What do you mean about stealing my name? Marriage so soon, Peruggia?"

"Hyphenation suits me better," Roman said, turning to Dorian with that characteristic flush rising on his cheeks- "No, I'll show you'll how I'll steal your name. Could I hear you say it?"

A shaky breath in. His heart fluttering in his chest. "Dori-" And Roman stole his name before it even left his lips.

Roman wrapped an arm around him, muscled and strong enough to lift gilt frames and statues, and held Dorian close. A stupid flirtation Dorian had heard in galleries a thousand times popped into his head, the way silly things do when all you want to think about is this one irrepeatable moment- I can't hold your hand, babe, they say not to touch the masterpieces.

But he was. And Roman was.

And Dorian couldn't copy himself a thousand times or find a version of Roman he could risk wrecking. So he brought up his hand, able to tease gold leaf into place and just barely brush a canvas with loving detail, to rest on Roman's cheek with the utmost gentleness as he deepened the kiss.

When they came apart, they grinned at each other in a giddy moment of bliss.

"That was-" "Very smooth-" "Your hand is so soft-" "A wonderful kiss-" "A fantastic kiss-" "Shall we?" "May I?" And they kissed again.

"So..." Dorian said, usual composure kissed into slight breathlessness. "Now you have my name, what are you going to do with it?"

Roman grinned. "Give it back the same way, maybe?"

Dorian shook his head. "Hold it for just a moment."

Roman pouted. "We can't have a serious discussion on an unequal footing! I'm a thief, not an evil man! That would be wrong!"

Dorian hummed. "I do see your point. Alright, give it here."

"Roman-" He looked at Dorian expectantly, but he was waiting. "I'm sorry," Roman said. "Peruggia is realer than the name my family passed down to me."

"I like it," Dorian said quickly. "I'll take it." He tipped his face up and kissed Roman again.

The light filtered bright and glowing across their faces. Dorian asked, "What now?"

Roman replied, "How shocked do you think Dot would be if we started making out at our usual table?" Because Dot and the restaurant were routine, it was making this delicate sketch of the two of them together into something more permanent.

Dorian cackled. "I think she and Larry would come out with popcorn!"

"Then let's do it!" Roman tugged Dorian to the door. He laughed, just because he could. "Great galloping Gauguin! We can do that!"

"Can," Dorian shut the door behind them, "and shall."

"I think I'm going to kiss tiramisu off your nose," Roman said dreamily.

"If you try that I'll break up with you," Dorian threatened, before realising his threat had done the exact opposite of make him look reserved and casual.

"Break up, huh?" Roman nudged him in the ribs. "Is that so? Dear? Darling? My pretty painter?"

Dorian went as red as Roman's sash.

Dot and Larry watched Dorian tug Roman closer by the sash and Roman attempt to lace his fingers through Dorian's hair underneath his bowler hat through the window in the door from the kitchen.

"Ah, young love," Larry sighed. "Inept, but enthusiastic."

"They're both accountants!" Dot said, budging her husband out of the way so she could get a better view. "Not that young."

"Younger than us."

Dot sighed. "So are lots of people."

"You're more beautiful than the day I met you," Larry said. "You've aged like a fine wine...or a cheese."

"Oh." Dot raised a flirtatious eyebrow. "Is that so?"

"Let's show those whippersnappers how it's done, Dot!" Larry said with dramatic flair, offering her his hand. "I shall take out the tiramisu with you, and it will be...unbearably romantic!"

"Oh, Larry."

⁂

A month later, 'Declyn' and Roman came to give Dot and Larry a final farewell. They were moving to Italy itself, but they both assured Larry nowhere in the country would have food as good as his.

Two months later, the news hit the headlines that the Mona Lisa had been stolen from the Louvre itself by none other than Roman Peruggia (he left his calling card).

And finally, four months later, the Mona Lisa was returned, completely undamaged, to a little Parisian police station in the dead of night. Those who thought they had purchased her were left with worthless fakes. But what were they going to do, call the police?

Six months later, a few paintings were sent to Dot and Larry. One was of their restaurant, a cheery little piece signed by ‘Declyn’. The other was of a hillside, done in a style remarkably like Van Gogh and even in a frame which had a museum code on the back of it. Larry and Dot thought of their Stitch doll, looked at the nice postcard with the painting, shrugged, and hung it up anyway. The postcard offered to paint Dot and Larry when they met Dorian and Roman again- accounting, they discovered, had never been their true passion.

Two years later, the sun picked out a hillside in Italy in red and gold. The watercolour wash of the sunrise faded into the glinting sea. Cypress trees were wind-swept into Van Gogh swirls; the susurration of their leaves stirred the cool morning air. A crisp dryness in the air promised that it would be hot later.

On the veranda of a spacious house overlooking the view, a man leaned over the railing to gaze at the valley below.

Another padded barefoot out of the house behind with a grin on his face. "Hmm, let me guess...another landscape? You're going to run out of green paint at this point, Basil too-many-Brushes."

Dorian didn't turn from the view. "Oh, I'll run out of paint and brushes a long time before this hillside stops demanding to be painted."

"No, you won't," Roman said with a cocky grin. "I'll buy you all the paint and brushes in the world."

Dorian rolled his eyes and turned to him with a grin of his own. "You know just what I mean, Roman. You haven't a sensitive bone in your body."

"No, I do!" Roman put a hand to his ear, and leaned out to the ocean. "The hill is saying...'Come inside! Roman's put out things for breakfast!'"

"You are..." Dorian said, as soft as the susurration in the trees, "an idiot."

"And which of us is bilingual?"

"Sto imparando," Dorian replied, raising an eyebrow. "And I was talking about art."

"Art, is it?" Roman teased, before holding his hands in a square shape, closing one eye so he could frame Dorian in them. "I think, if I could paint, I could do a nice composition of this. Only your hand could capture your beauty, but I'd make a valiant attempt!"

Dorian felt himself soften, and he didn't think to disguise that in his expression. The feeling was familiar, now. It was no less strong. Just rather than focussing on the choppy waves of flustering or blushing as he used to, he could feel the familiar tug of affection for Roman underneath it. The ocean had filled up his chest, now, and he breathed love as easily as he did air. "You flatter me, dearest."

"Flattery," Roman walked to the railing and wrapped his arms around Dorian's waist, "implies it is untrue." They were quiet for a moment, breathing in tandem as they looked over the view.

"And what will you do today?" Dorian asked Roman.

Roman hummed. "I'm going to try the tiramisu recipe again-"

"You're such a sweet-toothed child-"

"Shut up, I know. And then I'm going to have a look to see how Create is using our money. Maybe find somewhere else, do some in-depth research as to where it can go." Millions and millions of dollars and pounds and euros had been very appealing, but the scale of it hadn't much occurred to Roman when he began working for the thrill of the chase and a new persona for himself. Now, he'd decided to semi-retire and play the crooked philanthropist.

"I'll help you later, dear," Dorian said. "I might paint first...maybe I should paint myself out here. Would you take a photo?"

Roman popped inside for his phone, came out again and made Dorian pose, taking some pictures. He put it down, patting his other jacket pocket. "Love," he said, a little too casual, "you haven't done a self-portrait before. Why now?"

Dorian shrugged. He had an essay of reasons why, but he chose the simplest and final line because he thought Roman could guess at the rest quite well. "Whyever not?"

So he printed out the photo and set up his easel, and Roman lay on his stomach on the floor beside him, reading articles and sending emails. He wouldn't let Roman see it until it was finished, as with any of his original paintings - he was still something of a perfectionist.

A few weeks later, they were in much the same position, only the sunset was shining outside and Roman was watching Disney with earbuds in. Dorian swore lying on the floor like that couldn't be comfortable, but Roman was like a cat - he just wanted to be in the same space as his boyfriend and seemed to have a spine made out of rubber.

Dorian sighed and rinsed his brush, then rolled his shoulders out. "Alright, there we are."

Roman pulled an earbud out. "What- did you say- to-o me?"

"If that was meant to be 'I'll Make a Man Out Of You', I'm unimpressed," Dorian said, rolling his shoulders out. "I'm finished."

Roman's eyes widened. "Oh, all done already? That was fast!"

"Well, it is a tiny canvas. I just need to let it dry and sign it-"

Roman let out an audible sigh of relief, shutting his laptop. "I'm going to put this in our room! To charge it!" He bolted out of the room with his laptop under his arm.

Dorian's eyes narrowed, then a wicked grin crossed his face. He stretched his wrists out once more, then darted through to a side-table and slipped something from there into his pocket before stepping back to the side of his easel with an innocent smile.

Roman skidded back into the room before casually sauntering over to his boyfriend. "So, what are you going to sign the portrait?"

Dorian smirked and got down on one knee, pulling out a ring box and flipping it open. "I don't know, Roman. Dorian Peruggia-Smith has a ring to it, no?"

Roman's mouth dropped open. "You little-" He pulled out his own ring box as he went red. "You stole my line!"

"You stole my heart," Dorian replied smoothly.

"This isn't fair..." Roman whined, but he was fighting a smile.

Dorian plucked the ring out from its setting. It was a ruby inlaid in gold. He held his hand out for Roman's, but Roman replied by dropping to his own knee and taking out a gold band wrought like a snake.

"Dorian, you are-" he said quickly so Dorian wouldn't thwart him again- "You are- you are so perfectly yourself, now, and now felt so right because- you saw me, and I wanted to show how I see you- and I do, I see you and I love you- and I'm so happy you can see you and be proud of you too-"

He took Dorian's hand and slid the ring onto his finger.

"The ring is perfect," Dorian said softly. "Your speech was perfect. Could I show you my painting?"

Roman got to his feet, and helped Dorian up, watching the ring on his- his fiancé's hand.

Dorian was incredibly articulate. He could pull on a persona with a costume, talk about art history for hours, and flirt with Roman and tease him until he blushed. But the very big emotions? They were so hard to phrase. They felt like they turned to fakes in his mouth, so overdone they weren't worth anything anymore. So he took Roman's hand and led him to his original painting, and hoped he would understand.

The painting was of the photo Roman had taken, but it had widened to include Roman taking the phone photo too. It was looser and freer than his usual style, the side of his face was indistinct and Roman had his back turned to the viewer. The trees swirled, the sea gleamed, but the sunrise did not come from the east. Rather it came from Roman.

He glowed gold, and it emanated from him in a soft glow which faded to a gentle red. It picked out the detail around Dorian like a halo.

Dorian watched Roman's part as he looked at it, the soft, "Oh." of his lips.

"Do you understand?" Which is often the question we're too afraid to ask those we hope love us.

Roman shook his head. "You glow too. You're iridescent. It's not from me."

Just because someone loves us, it does not mean they can read our mind.

Dorian shook his head. "I know. It's that... you centre me. You help me see more clearly...I feel like- I am all myself, and I could be myself without you. But you help pick out the good parts in me, the real parts of me. I could do a twin of this, if you like? If you're so sure I glow?"

"I'd like that very much," Roman said, holding out his hand to Dorian. Dorian slipped the ring on. They held each other's hands and leaned in to kiss one another, and the evening sun slipped down into the cerulean sea and backlit them in a wash of light.

⁂

Dorian knew that he was a good forger because he could get the sense of any piece, he could disappear completely into another artist's thoughts and feelings. He was not the best at them. He could never study one artist well enough to become a master.

He was not the best at originals, either. He wasn't sure how he could be. They showed his own thoughts, his own feelings, and nobody could tell how accurate they were to him. Maybe Roman. Not always. There was no metric to measure them to, no guide to help him, nothing but his own intuition and decades of practice of different techniques.

But Roman had demanded painting. He thought that if he could paint Roman, he could paint anything in the world. When he looked back at that first painting, he saw how much of his husband he had left out. So, he practiced painting everything so he could finally capture his thief - a still life of a drooping rose for his cheeks, an explosive modern piece for his passion, a detailed cityscape to practice detail. He'd never got one perfect yet.

So he tried to paint Roman, over and over, and in his practice of landscape and abstracts and flights of fancy, Dorian ended up painting himself, realer and realer, every day.

#roceit #ts fic #roman sanders #deceit sanders #sanders sides #partners to lovers #thief roman sanders #forger deceit sanders

47 notes · View notes

grootpoepjeplasjehoofd · 5 years ago

Text

Our outfit grew rapidly and we moved again from Berlin-Pankow to a bigger building on the Rolandufer in the center of East Berlin. I was soon promoted as deputy in the newly founded foreign intelligence service to Gustav Szinda, a man with many decades of experience in covert operations in Spain and elsewhere for Soviet intelligence.

Unfortunately, neither Szinda nor I had much idea of where to start against a West German service that had emerged, practically unscathed, from the collapse of the Nazi Reich. Leading intelligence figures who had served Hitler were now working for their new masters in a small, mystery shrouded Bavarian village called Pullach. We had to look it up on the map when its name first started appearing in the press. This was an unknown world to us and seemed quite beyond our reach, although with time, we would become very familiar indeed with its workings.

I initially came across the name of General Reinhard Gehlen, the first leader of West German intelligence, in a headline in the London Daily Express that read HITLER’S GENERAL SPIES AGAIN - FOR DOLLARS. The byline was that of Sefton Delmer, a journalist known for his connections with British intelligence; during the war he had been in charge of the British counterintelligence radio station Soldatensender Calais. Delmer’s report caused a furor. It revealed not only that the Nazi intelligence old boy network remained intact, but that the new espionage services in the Federal Republic contained numerous former SS men and military intelligence experts who had operated under Hitler in France and elsewhere. Gehlen himself had been head of the Nazis’ military espionage unit against the Red Army. Through the Gehlen Service, as it came to be known, the Americans, who were giving the orders in West Germany’s intelligence sphere pretty much as the Russians were in the Eastern bloc, had access to the old Nazi connections.

There were also rumors about the role of General George S. Patton, Jr., who was said to be extending his protection to certain high-ranking German officers. Worriedly, I realized that the postwar goal of a Europe at unified peace was no longer tenable. The muzzles had been loaded on both sides. The peace won at such sacrifice now appeared very fragile. Europe was divided, and the fault line ran right through Germany.

West Germany’s chancellor, Konrad Adenauer, threw in his lot with the American “policy of strength” and the strategy of rolling back communism professed by John Foster Dulles, whose brother, Allen, was the chief of the U.S. intelligence service, the Central Intelligence Agency. Soviet power had pushed west at the end of the war; now Washington was prepared to summon up all the political, intelligence, economic, and, if necessary, even military strength of the United States and its allies to counterattack. Gehlen recognized the opportunity the new clash provided for him to exert a direct influence on policy. He met with Adenauer before the West Germans took over his intelligence service from the CIA and was given extraordinary powers and support. That included the control of files against domestic political enemies, including Social Democrats who were in parliamentary opposition to the Christian Democratic government. In the West German armed forces and its state bureaucracy, loyal servants of the Third Reich once again held top positions, and former Nazi officers ran Gehlen’s organization.

The name of Hans Globke, one of Adenauer’s closest advisers and ultimately a secretary of state in the chancellors office, became a synonym for this kind of infiltration. A former high-ranking official in Hitler’s Interior Ministry, Globke had been the author of an authoritative commentary on the Nuremberg racial laws that legitimized violent discrimination and eventually led to the Nazis’ Final Solution. Globke would serve as Adenauer’s state secretary for ten years.

In this frantic atmosphere, Berlin in the 1950s succeeded Vienna as the heart of espionage operations in Europe. As many as eighty secret service agencies with their various branches and front organizations were operating in the city. In the Americans’ and Russians’ covert offices, masquerading as everything from plumbing companies and jam exporters to academic and research bureaus, sat whole groups of case officers recruiting and running their respective agents who could easily travel between the sectors of Berlin and the two halves of Germany in the days before the Wall dividing the city and the nation was erected in 1961.

It was also before the West German economic miracle began, and therefore was a time of shortages and economic desperation. Offers of food or advancement lured people into spying. But while the West Germans could resort more easily to financial offers, we were still operating on a shoestring and had to pursue a more ideological approach. Many of our moles in West Germany, particularly in politics and industry, were not Communists but worked with us because they wanted to overcome the division of Germany and believed the policies of the Western Allies were only reinforcing it. We lost some of these later when the Wall went up and presented them with the symbol of a divided Germany literally set in concrete.

The minutiae of setting up the brand-new espionage service took up most of my time. My attention was focused on the West, and I worked hard to familiarize myself with the political shifts in the United States and Western Europe and to keep up with the development of their postwar intelligence services.

We had to acquire new sources in the political, military, economic, and scientific and technical centers on the other side. This was easier said than done, since the security requirements in our own apparatus imposed by the Soviets were extremely strict. Thousands of recommended candidates had to be screened in order to come up with a handful who were acceptable. Those with Western relatives were ruled out, as were most who had spent the war years as refugees or prisoners of war in the West. Contrary to rumors that still persist, we did not knowingly employ former Nazis inside our apparat and regarded ourselves as morally superior in this regard to the West Germans.

We had access to some of the Nazi files on party membership in the Third Reich, which we would use to persuade those in the West who had suppressed their past collaboration with the Nazis to cooperate with us. Many others volunteered to work with us, claiming that they regarded it as a kind of moral reparation for the harm they had done in the past. That was looking at it kindly. The real reason was more likely that they wanted to insure themselves and their new careers in the West against unwelcome revelations from our side at a later date. In German, we called this Ruckversicherung, literally a kind of “backward insurance” for the past. Through the West German Communist Party we inherited the services of a politician in the Free Democratic Party named Lothar Weihrauch (who later served in West Germany’s Ministry for Common German Affairs) who supplied a great deal of political information until we discovered that he had committed war crimes when he held a high position during the German occupation of Poland. We then cut him off. We also recruited another former Nazi, an ex-storm trooper code-named Moritz, who was helpful during our political battle against the European Defense Community (which was finally blocked by the nationalism of the French rather than anything our intelligence service did to discredit the project).

The past was a powerful weapon among the spy services, and both sides were unashamed to use blackmail. Just as we sought to bring down politicians or senior figures hostile to us by revealing their Nazi complicity, the West Berlin Committee of Free Jurists, an anti-Communist organization made up of lawyers who had fled the East, produced their own booklet of Eastern functionaries who had managed to conceal Nazi Party membership. But since almost all of our senior intelligence officers and the political elite had been in exile or in the underground during the Third Reich, we in the East won that particular propaganda battle hands down.

Some Nazis tried to make the switch to our side by hiding their past. Soon after I started work, a junior member of the staff came to me in a great state of embarrassment to say that he had noticed a man working in the interrogation department who bore the telltale SS tattoo on his arm. Interrogation was the roughest department within the ministry, and I would not have liked to be exposed to some of the thugs who worked there. I could well imagine how someone who had a taste for such work from the previous regime might have felt at home there. We removed him quietly from the post.

The blackmail that went on was a dirty and compromising game and was played by both sides. Some former Nazis in the West offered their services to us out of a kind o f contrition, others for money, or to prevent their unmasking as former collaborators with the Nazi regime. The Soviets had more blackmail opportunities because they held the captured Nazi files, and they took in such people as the former SS-man Heinz Felfe, who had held the rank of Obersturmfuhrer in the Nazi intelligence organization, the Reich Security Office (Reichssicherheitshauptamt), and had found postwar employment with the Gehlen Service. Felfe became a Soviet double agent, betraying all the main achievements of the West German service to Moscow and doing damage on a scale accomplished only by such double agents as Kim Philby, George Blake, and Aldrich Ames.

Markus Wolf, Memoirs of a Spymaster

9 notes · View notes

b-does-the-write-thing · 6 years ago

Text

The Demon Earl’s Deal, A Rumbelle Big Bang Fic

With the fate of Avonlea in the balance, Belle French will do anything to save her village, including making a deal with the Demon Earl of Lonsdale himself.

This story is part of @rumbellebigbang . A huge thank you to the runners of this great program as well as to my partner @rumpledspinster . She was a wonderful partner throughout the process and continually surprised and delighted me with her scene interpretations, fresh ideas and supported me every step of the journey. You can see her artwork for this story here.

Chapter One

Wales, March 1810

Everyone in Avonlea knew the story of the Demon Earl.

Robert Gold had first appeared at Askham Hall as a young child to everyone’s surprise, including his father, Lord Malcolm Gold, Lord of Lonsdale. There was no use denying the parentage; the young boy was Malcolm’s spitting image.

The surprising series of events was chalked up to youthful indiscretions and the boy was promptly shipped off to boarding schools. Avonlea almost forgot about the Lord of Lonsdale’s bastard son entirely until the day when he had returned to Askham Hall as a wedded man with a bride on his arm.

The Demon Earl lasted less than a year before he decamped back to London. He left his young wife in Wales with her father-in-law and her new mother-in-law, a lady younger than she was.

Stories leaked out from Askham Hall about the devious debauchery Lord Robert engaged in while he was in London. Servants often noticed the ladies of the house in tears, and the Lord of Lonsdale in fits of rage over the reports in the paper about his son cutting a swath through every boudoir of London.

He ordered his errant son back home but less than a year later...Lord Malcolm Gold and his daughter-in-law were dead. Robert Gold disappeared the very same night and had not been heard from in four years.

Until today.

Standing along the path overlooking the valley, Belle French gazed out at Askham Hall. Smoke curled up from the chimneys which meant the rumors were true; after four years, the Lord of Lonsdale had finally come home.

No one had known where he had gone. There had been no word, no whisper, not even a mention of the errant lord in the society papers. So, of course, in his absence, speculation had run rampant throughout Avonlea.

Some said the new Lord Lonsdale had pledged his soul to the devil and had since been off cavorting with demons. Others whispered he had gone off to profit from Napoleon’s bloody war on the Continent, while the bolder among them insisted he had gone to sell secrets to the dictator himself in exchange for refuge in France.

Rumors varied from source to source but everyone agreed upon one thing: Lord Robert Gold, was capable of anything.

Which was why, despite all the horrific rumors, Belle was on her way to Askham Hall.

Gold had been home for less than twenty-four hours and he already felt buried alive. His solicitor, Sidney Glass, had been firm that he could not put this off any longer, so Gold had returned to Askham Hall to put an end to this chapter of his life, once and for all. If he was truly going to be free of his past, he had to sever the last tie, the matter of the estate.

The halls were too quiet. The few remaining servants avoided him, scurrying out of his way less he curse them. He had heard the whispers, he knew the rumors. If he occasionally began to mutter something under his breath in Greek, just to watch a maid hurry away in terror, it was only for a moment’s respite from the eyes following him from room to room.

The head of house was the sole exception. “My lord,” Dove announced as he swung open the bedroom’s door, uninvited and unannounced. “I’ve brought you up the tea you requested.”

Turning from the window, Gold frowned. “I don’t recall requesting anything, Dove.”

The older man bowed. “My apologies,” he said as he left the tray on the table. HIs eyes flickered in disapproval around the guest bedroom. “We’ve finished airing out the state chambers,” he declared. “Perhaps those would be more suitable?”

Gold flinched. He had no interest in using his father’s rooms. He would rather barricade the door entirely then so much as take a step inside. As for his old rooms, it had merely taken one look at his bed for the memories of Milah to return.

These past four years, he had managed to banish her from his mind but her ghost had been awaiting him in their marriage bed. So, he had retreated to a guest room on the other side of the manor.

Let the household gossip about his choice of rooms. It did not matter to him. He was only here long enough to break the trust, to sell these cursed stones and leave the ghosts to some other poor sod.

The head of house lingered, clearly about to make his case on why a lord should not be staying in these lesser rooms. Uninterested in a lecture, Gold brushed past Dove towards the door. “I’ll be in my study,” he grumbled.

Arriving in the study, Gold tried and failed to find something to occupy his time when a flash of amber caught his eye. A bottle of brandy had been left out with a tumbler nearby. He stared at it for a long moment, debating.

Finally, figuring he had nothing else to do, and facing down a long afternoon of boredom and painful memories, he uncapped the brandy and poured himself a tall glass. It may not be the answer, but it was a solution.

Despite growing up in Avonlea, Belle had never actually been this close to Askham Hall. The great stone facade sprawled in every direction against the horizon of the sky, the dark stone glistening in the spring sun as if alive.

Belle lingered upon the stairs, mustering her courage. She had no experience with lords or great houses, but there was no helping that now. Steeling her spine, she stepped to the knocker, raised up to indicate the master of the house was at home and knocked.

It reverberated in the inner caverns of the great house. Belle pulled self-consciously on her sleeve and reached up to fix her bonnet. She had taken time to arrange her appearance just so, but now that she was actually here, she felt undressed. It did not take long for the door to open to reveal a somber fellow, whom Belle recognized at once as Askham Hall’s head of house, Dove.

Everyone in Avonlea knew the skeleton staff still employed by the errant lord; they were fortunate compared to the rest of Avonlea, with steady pay and lodgings while the rest of Avonlea had declined in the years that had followed the tragedies.

“Good afternoon,” Belle greeted. “I’m here to speak to Lord Lonsdale.”

The head of house recognized her as well. Being the town’s schoolmistress lent her a certain air of notoriety. “Miss French,” he said, though he did not open the door. “I don’t believe his lordship is receiving anyone today.”

She had not expected to be turned away at the door. She felt a bit silly that she had not considered that possibility. She plastered her best smile upon her face. “It’s a simple matter,” she said, which was not exactly true. “Perhaps Lord Lonsdale has just a moment?”

Dove wavered but with a slight tilt of his head, he gestured for her to follow after him. The hall was as great as Belle had expected. It was white marble with a great chandelier hanging overhead, glistening in the early spring sunlight but there was an unearthly stillness as if the hall was awaiting something.

Dove escorted Belle down a long corridor. Every room they passed showed signs of neglect and age, cluttered and crammed with furnishings. It was a shame to see such a beautiful house brought low but if the rumors were to be believed, this house had seen terrible things and perhaps it was for the best.

Caught up in staring at her surroundings, Belle almost walked straight into Dove when he stopped to open the library door. “Miss Belle French to see you, my lord,” Dove announced without so much as a look back at her.

Belle did not give the earl a chance to refuse to admit her. Seizing her courage, she walked straight past Dove into the library.- only to falter at the sight before her.

She hadn’t known what she expected the Demon Earl to look like, but it was not this. The earl was standing at a window, clad only in his shirt sleeves. The sun cut through the thin fabric to show the planes and lines of his frame beneath the muslin.

He was not a particularly physically intimidating man but there was a stillness about him, an air of power, that proved that this was indeed the man who had spawned so many legends in Avonlea. He was not a typically handsome man but there was something about him that drew the eye, invited one to look closer.

The door closed behind her as Dove departed. Jolted out of her reverie, Belle turned back to the door, rather wishing the head of house had lingered. Belle had never spoken to a member of the peerage before and suddenly felt wrong-footed, uncertain where to start.

When she did not speak, the earl lifted an eyebrow at her. “And who would you be?”

“Belle French, my lord.”

He waved his arm, the glass in his hand catching the sunlight. “Yes, I know that, Miss French, as you were just announced mere seconds ago. I meant who are you to me? It is considered the highest of impropriety for a lady to call upon a lord unaccompanied without so much as an introduction.”

Biting back an angry retort, she managed, “I’m the schoolmistress in Avonlea.”

“Ah.” Gold waved his hand and turned back to the window. “Barely home a day and already they come knocking,” he muttered to himself before saying loudly for her benefit,” I assume you are here seeking funds for a worthy cause. I’d advise you to have your husband or father apply to my steward in the future rather than inconveniencing me. Good day, Miss French.”

At his curt dismissal, Belle’s temper flickered and caught. “I am unwed and my father has been dead and buried ten years this August. Besides, this is not some simple matter for your steward, my lord.”

“It never is,” he said over his shoulder. He strolled over a decanter-covered cabinet and refilled the glass in his hand. “Everyone thinks their matters are too important for a steward. I wonder what I pay him for. ”

“Lord Lonsdale,” Belle said, starting again. ”I’m here because the people of Avonlea are suffering, and you are the only one in a position to help them. It will cost you little in time or money.”

“I don’t care how little it costs,” Gold snapped. “I don’t want anything to do with your village or the people in it. Which includes you.” He gestured toward the door. “So, I suggest you leave before things get uncivil.”

From her perspective, things were already uncivil, so Belle did not see that as a reason to leave. She gave up on any niceties, planting her hands on her hips. “I am not asking for your help, I am demanding it as your role of lord requires of you. Now, shall I explain now or wait for you in the parlor until you are sober?”

Lord Gold lowered his glass. “I wouldn’t speak to me like that if I were you,” he warned as he took a step closer. “Last I checked, you were in my home. Have a care how you speak to me.”

Belle had prepared for a certain level of antagonism and had meant to meet it with a calm, level head but as usual, her temper was starting to get a hold of her. “Your father was a good man,” Belle reminded him. “He did a great deal for the people of Avonlea. The poor fund, the chapel-”

“I am not my father.”

She had touched a nerve. Belle crossed her arms and blustered, “No, it appears the apple has fallen rather far from the tree. Since you have inherited, you haven’t done a thing for the estate or the village.”

“Nor do I intend to,” he picked his drink back up and finished it in one swallow.

He meant it too.

“How can you say such a thing?” she asked him. “No one is that heartless.”

Gold smiled. “Miss French, your innocence is touching.” He leaned against the edge of his table and crossed his arms. “You had best depart before I shatter any of your other dearly beloved illusions.”

She gaped at him. “Don’t you care that people are suffering?”

Gold thought for a moment. “No.”

“What would change your mind?” Belle pressed him. She had not come all this way to just give up

Gold waved his hand. “My help is not available for any price you would be willing to pay.”

“How can I know that unless you name your price?”

This caught his attention. He stilled and the air in the room shifted. “You want to make a deal?” he drawled, taking a step closer to her. He crooked a finger and beckoned her closer. “And what exactly do you have to offer, Miss French?”

Too late, Belle realized what could be insinuated from her reckless words. A flush spread across her face but she tried not to avert her eyes from his smug countenance as he sat upon the desk.

When she could not find her voice, Gold stood, victorious. “I fail to see why I should spend my time and energy when there is nothing in it for me.” He retrieved his glass and poured himself another glass of brandy, returning to the other side of the desk. “Close the door on your way out, Miss French.”

Belle was tempted to do just that, but she had to try one last time, not for her sake but for the sake of Avonlea. “I will not leave until you have named a price for your aid.”

The Demon Earl stared back at her, his face an impassive mask. ‘You will not like my answer.”

No, she rather thought she wouldn’t. Still. “At least name your cost.”

A shadow crossed his face, calculating and triumphant. “I’ll name my price, but it’s one I’m confident that you will refuse to pay.”

“What is it?” she asked warily.

“What I want,” he paused for a deep drink of brandy, “is you.”

Read the rest on A03

#rumbelle fic #rumbelle big bang #rumpledspinister #rumbelle regency

43 notes · View notes