#belowstairs

[sarahreesbrennan]

LONG LIVE EVIL IN LOCUS

I was delighted LONG LIVE EVIL was reviewed in @locusmagazine’s July print issue, described as ‘a wholehearted embrace of, and a commentary on, the high-fantasy high-angst high-romance end of the fantasy genre … It’s very entertaining.’ I do not share the whole review, but I did really appreciate and want to highlight the love for Emer, one of my POV characters, wicked maid to a wicked mistress, but… as you can see, it’s complex! Part of why I wanted to write a villain ensemble is that I wanted to write several ladies in a fantasy pressure cooker, with real connections that are being tested in real ways. I feel sometimes because people are (understandably) tired of ‘ladies being catty to each other’ there’s pressure to portray friendships, romances between women and literal sisterhood as all hearts and flowers or you’re doing something wrong. And I love me some sisterhood, but once more I choose villainy. I’d rather be wicked and write wickedly if I and the women I write can be wrong, and hurtful, and complicated people who have to navigate complicated situations.

In LONG LIVE EVIL I wanted to show how relationships between women can also be fraught, tangled, tested, heartbreaking—and hilarious when your previously cunning mistress starts yelling ‘I SEE THE FUTURE!’ (Which is what I’d consider doing if I got isekai’d, but I’d never seen it ((and when you don’t see something, time to go write it…)) and then of course, what is a false prophet but a storyteller, what is an ill fortune teller but a witch, and what did Cassandra get even though her predictions for Troy all came true in the end…) We get a lot of aristocratic PoVs in fantasy and those are extremely fun, but with Emer I did want to take a deep dive into what it means to, essentially, be assigned evil minion at birth. What if your job is to help create the sexy (& therefore evil) & somewhat artificial (& therefore evil) beauty but that’s not at all how you present yourself? Might living the belowstairs Downton Abbey life at Skullcrusher Mountain not drive you to become fantasy Lizzie Borden? So happy to see a spotlight for Emer—I love her and I hope you all will too. Sooooon.

[lindstromm]

Bartholomew Brimsley. He's an only child and an orphan who misses his parents, per the book. Reynolds, on the other hand, has two older sisters. Fandom can make up any backstory for Brimsley and Reynolds that it wants (and it will), but if you're curious about what the book says about their families, here it is:

"Sisters," Reynolds said with a knowing chuckle.

"Have you any?" Brimsley asked. He suddenly realized he didn't know. And he wanted to.

"Sisters?" Reynolds repeated. "Two. Both older. You?"

Brimsley shooks his head. "It was only me. My parents had me late in life." And then, even though Reynolds hadn't asked, he said, "They're gone now."

"I'm sorry."

"So am I," Brimsley said softly. He'd been alone for so long. Maybe it was why he loved palace life so much. It had given him a place to belong. But he did not want to grow maudlin.

from p.167. More from the book about our favorite valets below the cut.

Brimsley found out he would be attending the Queen only a week before she arrived. from page 31:

Sophronia Pratt, head maid to Princess Augusta, had pulled him aside only last week and said, "You have been given the honor of serving our new queen." [Sophronia gives him instructions like teaching Charlotte "how we do things here." Brimsley irritates Sophronia by asking too many questions.] Pratt's eyes floated heavenward, and Brimsley, while not a skilled lipreader, was fairly certain she mouthed the words, Heaven help me. Heaven help them both. Honestly. He was getting thrown to the wolves, and they both knew it.

Pratt is the one who recommended Brimsley for the position. From page 33:

Brimsley wasn't stupid. Vain, perhaps, but not stupid. "I understand perfectly, ma'am," he said. "I thought you might," Pratt replied. "It is why I recommended you for this position." "Thank you, ma'am." Pratt gave him a look that said his thanks were beneath her. "Do you want to know the other reason I recommended you?" Brimsley was not sure that he did. "It is your face," Pratt said. "It is a bit like a fish." "Thank you?" He coughed. "Ma'am." "That is another reason, I suppose. I just insulted you, and you thanked me. You will get a lot of that from the Queen." Brimsley was not cheered by this. "Have you heard very much about her, then?" "Not a word," Pratt said briskly, "but royals are all the same in that regard. At any rate, your fish face lends you an air of perpetual disdain. You appear rather pleased with yourself, when we both know you have no reason to be." Brimsley was not sure he had ever been insulted so thoroughly, and if he were not the victim, he'd probably admire her for it. It was really rather deft.

That's his only conversation with Sophronia Pratt, thank god. Brimsley loves his new job, because of the status and the food. There's a hint here that Brimsley has gone hungry in the past, and that some of the maids weren't particularly nice to him before his promotion. Though he would be with a different group of maids and footmen when he moves to Buckingham House. From page 68:

He had been given a completely new uniform with a gold brocade vest, and the move to Buckingham House meant that he was at the top of the belowstairs hierarchy. Who could be more important than the chief servant to the Queen?

He might not sit at the head of the table in the servants' quarters -- that was the butler -- but he was at the butler's right hand.

He selected the choicest cuts of meat for his plate when they ate. He never had to worry about there being enough pudding for everyone because there was always enough pudding if you were the second person to be served.

Everyone looked at him differently, too. The maids no longer looked down their noses at him. Now he looked down his nose at them, even the ones who were taller, which, to be honest, was most of them.

Fish face, his ass. He was on top of the world.

Brimsley has several chapters in the book written from his point of view. In an inexcusable omission, none of the chapters are from Reynolds' point of view. This means we don't get the scene in which Reynolds tries to rescue George from Dr. Munro's torture. It's just not there. What we learn about Reynolds comes through in the chapters from George's or Brimsley's POV.

page 111:

[George] knew that Reynolds did not like it when he referred to himself as mad. They had been together since childhood, since before it became obvious that George would be King, and Reynolds would be, well, Reynolds. They had a bond of friendship and shared secrets.

Here's the part where Reynolds tells Brimsley how he ended up as King's Man, from p.270:

The two men found a place to sit, leaning against a bale of hay. Reynolds sighed. Brimsley did not think he had ever seen him so tired.

"Have I ever told you how I came by this job?" Reynolds said.

Brimsley tipped his head, letting the side of his forehead kiss against Reynolds's shoulder. "I imagine you were marked from a young age for your unmatched unction and superciliousness."

Reynolds gave him a little smirk, but there was a hint of good nature to it. "The King and I grew up together. I was His Majesty's playmate. We fished and climbed trees and were boys together."

Brimsley nodded. Reynolds had mentioned this. Not often; he tended to be circumspect about his background.

"I'm still not sure why the Palace allowed it," Reynolds continued. "They were monstrously strict about who got to spend time with the princes and princesses. I suppose it was because my mother was a trusted maid and my father a palace goldsmith. And I was the right age. Our birthdays are just two months apart."

"Who is the elder?" Brimsley asked.

"Me." Reynolds gave him one of those smiles he loved so much. "Of course."

"Of course."

"There was no one else for him unless some foreign dignitary or prince came to visit, but those were always awkward affairs. Two little boys dressed in their ridiculous finest and ordered to be friends."

"That does not sound as if it would go well."

"No," Reynolds mused, "it never did. Half the time they didn't even speak the same language. So it was just me. Me and George. I still called him George then."

"You don't now?"

Reynolds gave him a look. "You know I don't. And I certainly never did when anyone else was around when we were children."

Brimsley chuckled. "No, I can imagine that would not have gone over well."

"Of course I knew my station, but I liked Georgie. I liked him even when adults pushed me aside in their haste to bow and scrape to him." Reynolds looked up and grinned. It was a sentimental sort of smile, with the barest hint of something sad.

"He was affable," he continued. "And full of good humor. He put on no airs. I was perhaps the first to recognize his ... peculiarities. But I liked him no less. I was the closest thing he had to a friend, so I kept his secret. I sang distracting songs when he lost control of his thoughts. Held his arms down when they trembled."

He looked at Brimsley more directly. "I hid him from his monstrous grandfather."

"That was good of you," Brimsley said quietly. He had heard about George II. He had not been a kind man.

Reynolds nodded slowly, the kind one did not when one is agreeing, but when one is remembering. "When it came time to follow my father into the Goldsmith's Guild, I asked to stay with George instead. It would not be as lucrative, but I made the choice gladly. Because he needed me. And because --"

He swallowed.

"Because he knew my secrets, too. My own ... peculiarity. And he did not care. He kept my secret as I kept his. As I had to. Even from you."

"I'm sorry I was so angry with you," Brimsley said.

"I would have been the same way," Reynolds admitted.

There it is. Reynolds gave up on being a goldsmith, took a paycut, and stayed with George out of friendship, and because George accepted him as gay.

Reynolds doesn't say his parents have died. Reynolds is only 23 in the movie (King George III was 23 when he got married). It's possible his mother and father serve at the palace with him and he might see them occasionally.

This next scene was funny about Reynolds and his sisters, and it isn't in the movie. George is freaking out while Charlotte is in labor, and Reynolds assures him that this is normal. George gets snappish with him, p.297:

"You know this ... how?"

"Er, I've heard things."

"You've heard things," George repeated crossly.

"I have sisters. They both have children."

"Were you present for the births?" George wasn't sure why he was being such an ass to Reynolds. Probably he just needed to be an ass to someone, and he couldn't very well do it to the archbishop.

"I was not," Reynolds said in that ever-calm manner of his. "But they are both prodigious storytellers, and I was informed of every last detail."

The mental image of Reynolds trying to keep his composure while his sisters torment him with every last childbirth detail just cracks me up.

Anyway. Fandom will make up what it wants, but I thought I'd retype way too much of the book in case anyone was interested.

[acrossthewavesoftime]

I was tagged by @unanchored-ship, thank you!

Favorite Ships

I am not really very much interested in classical fandom 'shipping', I have to say. I occasionally do enjoy fictional relationships in the media I consume, but I would say that 'shipping' is too big a word.

My profile picture also informs me to type out "HMS Preston" for some reason. ;-)

Last Song

Come Here, Fellow Servant, from the afterpiece play High Life Below the Stairs (1759) by James Townley. As I understand, while the words survive, the original melody did not; this is a modern arrangement of what the song may have sounded like.

The play satirises the social hierarchies of the time, with the servants belowstairs trying to mimic the dissipated manner of living of their sybaritic, back-stabbing employers. The song is sung at the servants' secret house party, to which they invite a few aristocratic types interested in the delightful novelty of having to do with commoners. The song, composed by party guest Sir Harry, is sung by Kitty, an upwardly mobile maidservant who thinks highly of herself because she received an education and speaks French.

While perhaps some of the portrayals of characters or critique of contemporary issues in the play do not withstand the test of time (Kitty's belief in her education for instance would certainly carry a positive connotation nowadays), its core message, namely that thoughtlessly emulating someone just because they're considered to be rich and famous holds up poignantly well.

Last Film

Der Bestatter - Der Film. A Swiss comedy based on a 7-season series of the same name. Luc, an ex-policeman-turned-funeral-director-turned-Costa-Rican-beach-bar-owner and his friends, the two police officers Anna Maria and Dörig, ex-apprentice and now successful goth funeral director Fabio, his quasi surrogate mother Erika and Semmelweiß, the somewhat strange coroner have to band together one last time as a holiday stay at a remote hotel to celebrate Erika's birthday is unexpectededly interrupted when the hotel director dies under highly suspicious circumstances.

I can only warmly recommend both the series and the film; not only are the murder cases Luc and his friends solve gripping and often overarching an entire season, giving the storylines ample time to develop, Der Bestatter also deals very touchingly with topics such as loss, grief, death, terminal illness and facing past mistakes while never taking itself too seriously.

Currently Reading

The Spite of Fortune by Kishandra Fulford, a biography about Louisa Carolina Colleton Graves, an 18th/19th century noblewoman with a rather eventful life story. I am reading it not so much for her as for the information on her husband's family, the Graves'. While the author evidently poured a lot of effort into the book, some of her judginess against the physical appearance of some of the people featured in her book, a total lack of foot- or endnotes and the occasional spelling and grammar mistakes sadly don't sit quite right with me. With the right editor, she could have told Louisa Carolina Colleton Graves' fascinating, and also somewhat tragic, story a lot more effectively.

Currently Craving

Spring, a new pleated skirt, and a walk. Maybe some chocolate, too.

@clove-pinks, @professorlehnsherr-almashy and @my-deer-friend, would you like to join in? If anybody else wants to share their list, consider yourself tagged by me.

[mostlysignssomeportents]

Podcasting "Ideas Lying Around"

This week on my podcast, I read my recent Medium column, “Ideas Lying Around: Milton Friedman was a monster, but he wasn’t wrong about this,” which I describe a theory of change for unrigging markets, addressing the climate emergency, building worker power and fixing the imbalance between news publishers and Big Tech:

https://doctorow.medium.com/ideas-lying-around-33a28901a7ae

What is this amazing theory of change, that can do so much to right the world’s wrongs? Fittingly, it’s the same theory of change that got us into this mess. It’s Milton Friedman’s theory of change.

Friedman was the archduke of neoliberal economics, the man who led the counter-reformation that destroyed the gains of the New Deal and the Great Society, restored corporate monopolies to primacy over democratically accountable government, gutted labor power, and put the world in the hands of mediocre, narcissistic billionaires who are determined to set it on fire.

We live in Friedman’s world, but it wasn’t always thus. When Friedman set out to restore America’s deposed oligarchs to their Gilded Age thrones, his ideas were incredibly unpopular. The post-war reforms — trustbusting, unions, environmental and labor protections, Social Security, etc — were wildly popular. Year after year, these reforms grew, and the groups who had been excluded from them — women, racialized people, queer people, colonized people — launched liberation movements demanding (and winning) inclusion in this broad prosperity.

Friedman’s financiers and acolytes — plutocrats and the temporarily embarrassed millionaires who aspired to join them in despotic rule — loved Friedman’s vision, but they were naturally skeptical that he could make it into reality. They had been painfully disabused of the notion that their social inferiors were comforted by a life of forelock-tugging servitude:

https://doctorow.medium.com/the-end-of-the-road-to-serfdom-bfad6f3b35a9

How would Friedman convince these sharp-elbowed proles to go back belowstairs and stay there? Friedman had an answer:

Only a crisis — actual or perceived — produces real change. When that crisis occurs, the actions that are taken depend on the ideas that are lying around. That, I believe, is our basic function: to develop alternatives to existing policies, to keep them alive and available until the politically impossible becomes the politically inevitable.

Even the best-run society is subject to exogenous shocks — pandemic, invasion, natural disaster, meteor strike — and in the reeling dislocation of the crisis, people will turn to the loudest, most persistent critics of the failed status quo, desperate for alternatives.

Friedman got his crisis. In 1973, OPEC cut off the global supply of oil, and plunged the world into recession. The source of the recession was obvious: OPEC didn’t keep it a secret. But Friedman and his pals were able to convince the people shivering in the dark that their pain was caused by women’s lib, labor unions, civil rights and the EPA. In the crisis, his ideas moved from the periphery to the center.

Jimmy Carter got the ball rolling, adopting Friedman’s proposals for coddling monopolies and forcing workers out of guaranteed pensions and into the market’s rigged casino, where they would bet their 401(k)s against shrewd stock brokers for the chance of a dignified retirement:

Next came Ronald Reagan, who incinerated whole libraries’ worth of regulations that protected the American people from corporate predators, gutted unions and ripped out society’s steering wheel and brakes and set it rolling towards extinction’s cliff, whose brink we can see growing closer daily:

https://locusmag.com/2022/07/cory-doctorow-the-swerve/

Friedman’s been in hell since 2006, but we live in Friedman’s world. His ideas are firmly rooted in the center, and the ideas that delivered environmental regulation, decent jobs, and progress on gender and racial equality have been banished to the periphery.

But there will be crises. As Stein’s Law goes, “anything that can’t go on forever will eventually stop.” In every domain of human endeavor, we lurch from crisis to crisis: labor, climate, discrimination, corruption. Each of these crises is terrible, and each one is an opportunity for ideas lying around to rush into the center currently occupied by Friedman’s intellectual descendants.

80 years on, Woody Guthrie’s 1943 New Year’s Resolutions are a hell of a read, and not a day goes by that I don’t think of number 19: “Keep hoping machine running.”

https://www.townandcountrymag.com/society/news/a9130/woody-guthrie-resolutions/

My hoping machine runs on the creation and spreading of ideas lying around. Last year, Rebecca Giblin and I published Chokepoint Capitalism: How Big Tech and Big Content Captured Creative Labor Markets and How We’ll Win Them Back:

https://chokepointcapitalism.com/

The first half of the book consists of detailed explanations of the scams that the highly concentrated tech and entertainment sectors use to reduce the income of creative workers, even as their own profits rise to never-seen heights. Readers tell us that by the time they’re reached the book’s midpoint, they hear the dangerous, high-pitched keening that signals an incipient rage aneurysm.

But the second half of the book consists entirely of detailed, shovel-ready, systemic reforms that would make immediate, significant shifts in the pay creative workers get for their labor. None of these are individual solutions: we don’t tell you how to shop better or other consumerist theater. You’re not going to shop your way out of monopoly capitalism — no more than you’re going to recycle your way out of the climate emergency.

These are meant to be ideas lying around — ideas that are more than “let’s just make copyright last longer or cover more works,” which is all we’ve done for 40 years, to disastrous effect. After all, giving an artist more copyright to bargain with five publishers, four studios, three labels, two ad-tech companies or the one ebook/audiobook company is like giving your bullied kid extra lunch money. There isn’t an amount of lunch money that will get that kid lunch. You’ve gotta do something about the bullies. Hence the back half of Chokepoint Capitalism — ideas lying around for unrigging labor markets, to be deployed in a crisis.

On those lines: for the past month, EFF and I have been publishing a series called “Saving the News From Big Tech”:

https://www.eff.org/deeplinks/2023/04/saving-news-big-tech

This series lays out four “ideas lying around” for fixing the real problem with Big Tech’s relationship to the news: stealing money by rigging ads, payments and social media, so that 51% of every ad dollar and 30% of every app-based subscription goes to a tech giant, and news companies have to spend whatever they have left to “boost” their social media posts to reach the subscribers who asked to see their stuff.

News is in (perpetual) crisis, and, as with creative labor markets, the “solution” of first resort is to force tech companies to share their profits with news companies. This makes the news and tech into partners, just at the moment where we’re relying on news to investigate tech and expose its rot. It also favors the largest news companies, which are overwhelmingly either billionaires’ playthings or skeleton-crewed ghost ships owned by private equity looters.

The ideas (lying around) I develop with EFF are designed to prevent tech from reaping its illegitimate profits, making it weaker and making the press stronger, including indie news outlets, from nonprofits to spunky outlets run by laid-off reporters who are determined to bring their readers real news.

Fiction is also a great way to create ideas lying around. My next novel, The Lost Cause, is a science fiction thriller set in a world where the Green New Deal is underway and people are confronting, rather than denying, the scale and urgency of the climate emergency. It’s a novel full of joy, an emotional flythrough of what it would feel like to formulate and execute a plan to save ourselves, rather than hoping that the threat just goes away on its own:

https://us.macmillan.com/books/9781250865939/the-lost-cause

Kim Stanley Robinson describes The Lost Cause thus:

This book looks like our future and feels like our present — it’s an unforgettable vision of what could be. Even a partly good future will require wicked political battles and steadfast solidarity among those fighting for a better world, and here I lived it along with Brooks, Ana Lucía, Phuong, and their comrades in the struggle. Along with the rush of adrenaline I felt a solid surge of hope. May it go like this.

I am a firm believer in the power of ideas lying around, and I admit to feeling a guilty pleasure every time I cite Friedman’s own words. I like to think that whenever he hears his words in my mouth, he looks up from the spit he’s turning on in Hell, and amuses the demons turning the crank by gargling a curse around the red-hot bar protruding from his jaws.

Here’s the podcast episode:

https://craphound.com/news/2023/06/11/ideas-lying-around/

And here’s a direct link to the MP3 (hosting courtesy of the Internet Archive, they’ll host your stuff for free, forever):

https://ia802608.us.archive.org/28/items/Cory_Doctorow_Podcast_445/Cory_Doctorow_Podcast_445_-_Ideas_Lying_Around.mp3

And here’s a link to subscribe to my podcast’s RSS feed:

https://feeds.feedburner.com/doctorow_podcast

If you’d like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here’s a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/06/12/only-a-crisis/#lets-gooooo

[Image ID: A workbench with a pegboard behind it. from the pegboard hang an array of hand-tools.]

Image: btwashburn (modified) https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Garage_Workbench_-_%281%29.jpg

CC BY 2.0 https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/2.0/deed.en

[deevotee]

So i don't personally subscribe to the o!ciel finnian name theory (tho I DO believe the phantomhives are celtic!) but ive been thinking about it as a possibility and what it would mean for his relationship with finny, cuz even though it would mean that he's trying to take his brothers role and force his own role to someone else

WAIT POST PAUSED CAUSE IF ITS TRUE THEN WTF DOES HIS FAMILY THINK???

like??? how uncomfortable are they all everytime finny shows up? what was their reaction upon learning his name? do they know he was named by ciel or do they think its a coincidence??

like i can imagine frances reading her nephews letters like "Oh he got a new servant how lovely :) oh he named him finnian..? His dead little brothers name...? That's...sweet?"

also tanaka?! him meeting finny for the first time, fully being aware that o!ciel is the younger twin and just being like "😬 welcome to the belowstairs i guess"

[ded-and-gonne]

🍂 🎃 🍂 Sheehalloween 2022 🍂🎃🍂

Devil’s Night Part 3: A Green Man

<<———😵‍💫———>>

AN: I’m chopping a huge post down into manageable chunks. Hope you enjoy. Triggers: two not-brothers flirting, my sense of humor, treasure hunts, kitchens. Ded & Gonne is and will always be a gen fic.

Ded & Gonne || Devil’s Night || Start || Prev || Next

<<———😵‍💫———>>

“Is there such a thing as a sub-sub-basement?” It’s Klaus asking.

They’ve emerged from a non-descript door on an oddly ornate hallway. Lots of gilding. Crowns. Mouldings. Cherubs all over the place, a green man, and a gargoyle or two here and there. Wyrd-looking little squidgy symbols in random places, like the carpet, and light switches. A complete suit of armor. Other fancy stuff rich people would buy. For a really fancy sub-sub-basement.

Klaus asks, “Which way, Bennerino? This is your story, after all, and you get the honors of directing the particulars. You could even order me around, if that would cheer you up.”

That would definitely cheer Ben up. He needs to find a way of keeping Klaus willing to be bossed around indefinitely. Problem for another day.

Turning back to his not-brother, Klaus decides that Ben’s facial expression isn’t one to be trifled with. He can put off trifling for a while, for Ben’s sake. “Yes, dear one?” Klaus responds with fluttering lashes.

Turning back to his not-brother, Klaus decides that Ben’s facial expression isn’t one to be trifled with. He can put off trifling for a while, for Ben’s sake. “Yes, dear one?” Klaus responds with fluttering lashes.

Ben swallows heavily. He wants to kill Klaus, but that would be a little too on the nose for Devil’s Night. “Shut up and tell me how the hell this Devil’s Night thing is supposed to be a story. What exactly about this thing screams story to you?” is what Ben had wanted to say. Instead, he attempts the word “story” with a question mark at the end. Unfortunately, the explosive breath required by the word “story” is not available at the time due to losing his vocal chords. So he splutters a bunch of consonants, hoping “s,ry?” is close enough for Klaus to unpack.

Klaus unpacks. “Simple, Ben. We scare the shit out of each other as many times as possible between sundown and sunrise on Halloween morning. And then we get to tell everyone a bunch of awesome stories about how scared we got. Didn’t Dad make you guys play this?”

“Nnn,” Ben rasps his answer, and attempts to sigh a sigh of forbearance. Such a martyr, that Ben. “Storytelling? I’m sorry. But storytelling wasn’t a thing at the Sparrow Academy,” he would have responded, voice thick with disdain (rather than pain). Instead, he gives up and shakes his head, no.

“Really? Dad thought it was really important for our missions and the fate of the world that we tell good stories.”

“Namae nnnsense,” Ben whispers, lip curled, without explosive letters, and eyes squinting in doubt and pain.

“Sure it does. Like, ‘It was a dark and stormy night near Boston, when a short man — about 5’2” maybe, with a mustache, and a muscular build which looked really odd on such a tiny individual. He wore black leather jeans way too tight to hold out hope of ever producing enough live swimmers to father a child one day, a lime green t-shirt, and a lime green Mohawk. A caucasian male driving a 2012 Honda Civic Hatchback — beat me up and left me for dead at mile marker 25 on the Mass Pike heading west, before the Framingham exit. The license plate was suspicious.’ There. That’s a story. A really short and helpful one.”

“Cool story, bro,” says Ben, back to his eye-rolling sarcasm. It comes out more like a tiny, “Lll rrry, ro.” Again, the explosive letters giving him trouble. The humming, nasal letters, not so much.

A sharp left and on down a dark-ish hallway leads them to what Ben is guessing was once the belowstairs area for kitchen staff. A lightswitch proves the electricity still works, shocking, and a few footsteps into the largest room gives them a clear look at their treasure. At an industrial kitchen.

The layer of dust on the kitchen floor alone is at least an inch thick. Like an actual, measurable inch. Walking through it feels like disturbing freshly fallen snow. Plus the room has that eerie quiet that hangs over everything during a snowfall. Not a soul has traversed the room in, well, as many years as it takes to gather an inch of dust. The surfaces are even worse, which, if you really think about it, is not normal. Being abnormal in the sense that it lacks logic in almost every way.

It strikes Klaus as odd that the room lacks any trace of smell. On the contrary, it is a particularly noticeable freshness after what they’ve just come through.

No scent at all. Not musty, nor antiseptic, nor lemon-scented fresh. Nor like shit water, rot, or dead things. Ben smells no scent of freshly grilled and steaming fillet mignon, left to rest in peace, while the drippings are kept at a rolling boil for the Yorkshire pudding. As if food has never been prepared in this room. Not a sign of grunge, nor of stained surfaces. The kitchen appliances, the paint, the cabinets, countertops, all of it appears a lot newer than the rest of the, well, the rest of the entire building, actually.

The cupboards are officially bare. Officially. Not a dish nor a plate, let alone grilling utensils. And certainly no booze. And you know as well as anyone else that Klaus is a pro at finding booze, so, naturally, he’s checked. Like he’s really checked very hard.

Retracing their steps, a sharp right leads them out of the belowstairs quarters. On their way back, they continue beyond their original point of entry, and past more of the wyrd finery. This end of the hall culminates in a formal dining room. Don’t picture the one where Luther and Sloane got married. It’s not that cavernous, nor as twinkly and sparkly. But it’s got something the wedding didn’t. ooooWOOOOoooo

The glass French doors into the room stand open, as if expecting guests. Klaus is struck dumb. (That’s a miracle, by the way. Never happens.) The only occupants of the entire room are one long dining table and enough chairs for a substantial family or two — well over 20 chairs, possibly 30. The opulence of that dining table and its chairs is remarkable. So is the length. “It’s long. Longer than you were picturing, isn’t it, Ben. Like, stupid long,” Klaus remarks. “Normally I’d say who has room for that? But this room has room, so I guess they got what they paid for.”

As with every other room they’ve investigated (peeked into) thus far, the dining room is thick with dust, which kicks up from the floor into swirling eddies as they enter. Even the small panes of glass in the doors are covered in a layer of silt. Not just a dusting, but a mass of it clinging to the glass as if it’s been trapped there in an oily substance.

Ben now has a greater sense of foreboding than the foreboding he’d already been having, because the room, for all its opulence, has no windows to the outside world. Possibly because it’s a sub-sub-basement, but it could be for other reasons, too.

Against the far wall stands a massive, totally unexpected, green man.

“Look!” Klaus whisper-shouts, pointing at the green man. “It’s a green man!” He approaches the huge face. A man’s face, and only his face, Klaus can see that it had been cast in some sort of metal. The pink kind that turns green with age. Copper?

Ben stands back to take in the whole of it. Oval, tapering at the top and bottom. Almost like a huge imitation of a battle shield. Definitely not pretending to be a shield for actual fighting, Ben’s thinking. Not with this kind of ornately sculpted surface. No, this is pretending to be a formal, ceremonial shield. He couldn’t even guess what the weight of this thing would be to hang. He inspects it closely. Nah, that whole thing can’t be solid copper, that’s insane. Could it?

Ben has been fascinated by something other than conflict so rarely in his life, that he doesn’t even realize he’s been sucked in. “What are you on about? What’s a green man?”

Klaus turns slowly around, with the careful excitement of a small child who is in love with a new toy, but is afraid that even though his daddy gave it to him, he is about to take it right back out of Klausie’s chubby little baby hands. “Ooh! Ooh! I know this one.” Klaus stands up straighter, and holds his hands behind his back, while trying not to bounce on his toes. He speaks as if he’s giving a report. Maybe one of those ‘stories’ he likes so much. “They are pagan protector spirits or elementals in the Celtic lands stretching all the way back to the time of the druids. oooooWOOOOooooo, spooky.” Twinkle fingers. “But yeah,” he scritches his beard. “I dunno, though, something smells fishy. Because this big guy over here is a little bit younger than he should be, if he’s a green man.” Scratching his beard, he adds, “It’s not ancient. Not even medieval.” He is correct, it’s neither ancient nor medieval.

Klaus steps in closer to check out the detailing. Leaves grow in place of hair. His eyebrows, likewise, have grown leaves. Like an elemental would do. And the mustache and beard, also leaves. Standing up straight again, Klaus returns to his oral report. “Green Men are said to watch over rivers, lakes, streams, and woodlands. Doesn’t he look like he’s surfacing through his greenery? I don’t know about you Benny Bear, but I’m curious just what kind of greenery he’s been surfacing through. Think he’s got a leaf stuck in his teeth?”

Klaus walks up to only a nose’s distance, just to see what he can see, and starts to fondle the green man.

Not quite how it sounds. He’s running his fingers over bits of it, following every swirl in the lines of the oak leaf on one of its eyebrows. Or the lips, which seem about to speak. “Mirror, mirror, on the wall…that green man sure is tall. Am I right, ben? Yeah!”

Ben agrees. Stubbornly, so he doesn’t make it too easy for Klaus to have him around. Old habits blah blah blah whatever.

Thing is, Ben has been watching Klaus stroking down the length of the nose, and onward to the- the whatever it was they were- what were they- the fingers following sinuous lines. He shakes his head free of the hot, pink cobwebs that have suddenly regrown in the corners of his brain.

Klaus isn’t so much in a stupor as he is completely engrossed in his sensory experience, following all those snaking curves and ridges. “Boop!” Klaus pokes the Green Man in the eye.

Silently swinging open, the green man is a door.

No screech, creaks nor groans, no carpet to get caught on, unless you count all the dust. He would have at least expected the door to sound like metal against wood — whatever that sounds like. Or even a “fwoosh” sound. But nothing. Dead air.

“Ben? I’ve got a feelin, man. I’m thinkin like, maybe we shouldn’t go out there, y’know? This door was, it was way too easy. Right? I mean, that, that’s like a secret door, y’know? It should be harder to open.”

Klaus is actually quite shaken by this. “I’ve seen Indiana Jones and I know what it means when something is way too easy to open. Bad things happen. Bad.”

<<———😵‍💫———>>

Ded & Gonne || Devil’s Night || Start || Prev || Next

<<———😵‍💫———>>

Images: If anyone knows to whom I should credit any of these images, please tell me. Middle green man: john-howe.com

[cha1nbreak]

@lyriumwrath

there is someone else killing slavers in tevinter. calpernia took note soon after she was freed, when it became her own game as well ; there is some ghost slaying those who she wishes to see dead. it had been noticed and written down, marked as something to keep an eye upon to keep them from conflicting. it is a common goal and calpernia knew they would eventually meet. she did not anticipate that time being standing upon the threshold of a home she had come to rain death upon.

the former slaves were purchased and freed a week ago. the gold passing from her hand to another feels only a touch less sickening when calpernia knows she will be back in a few days time, will watch the skin of those who felt it right to purchase flesh turn to ash beneath her hands. it seems that job has been done for her. does this figure know her name, she wonders? or of her, of the other who skulks into grand homes in the night and leaves blood behind? calpernia knows her name has begun a slow spread through many of these homes, belowstairs, and there is a curiosity to the thought her fellow in ridding thedas of this scum has heard it.

"you have beat me to the punch," the door shuts behind her and calpernia does not move from its frame, does not draw the stave across her back, regards him with the cool hazel of her eyes, "though i suppose i cannot complain too heartily, so long as you have done what i came here to do."

[thebookwormslair]

Welcome, dear readers, to a world where Jane Austen's beloved classic, "Pride and Prejudice," is reimagined and infused with a delightful twist. Today, we embark on a journey to explore some of the most entertaining and engaging retellings of this timeless tale. So, grab a cup of tea, settle into your favorite reading nook, and prepare to be thoroughly entertained!

"Pride and Prejudice and Zombies" by Seth Grahame-Smith:

Yes, you read it correctly! This retelling adds a thrilling dose of the undead to the mix. Watch as the Bennett sisters navigate the treacherous world of Regency-era England, fighting not only societal expectations but also hordes of brain-craving zombies. It's a hilarious blend of romance, humor, and the undead that will leave you in stitches.

"Eligible" by Curtis Sittenfeld:

Prepare to be transported to modern-day Cincinnati in this contemporary retelling of "Pride and Prejudice." Sittenfeld brings the Bennett family into the 21st century, complete with reality TV shows, CrossFit enthusiasts, and even a Chipotle addiction. You'll find yourself rooting for Liz and Jane as they navigate the challenges of career, love, and family dynamics in a relatable and humorous setting.

"Bridget Jones's Diary" by Helen Fielding:

While not a direct retelling, this modern classic draws heavily from the themes and structure of "Pride and Prejudice." Follow the lovably imperfect Bridget Jones as she embarks on a journey of self-discovery, romantic mishaps, and hilarious diary entries. Filled with witty banter, endearing characters, and unforgettable moments, it's impossible not to fall in love with Bridget's endearing charm.

"Longbourn" by Jo Baker:

Ever wondered what life was like for the servants in the Bennett household? "Longbourn" takes us belowstairs, offering a fresh perspective on the events of "Pride and Prejudice." Delve into the lives of the hardworking servants, their triumphs and struggles, and the complexities of their relationships. Jo Baker beautifully weaves their stories alongside the familiar events of Austen's masterpiece.

"The Lizzie Bennet Diaries" by Kate Rorick and Bernie Su:

For those who prefer a multimedia experience, this retelling comes in the form of a web series. Adapted from a popular YouTube series, "The Lizzie Bennet Diaries" presents the story through video blog entries by modern-day Lizzie Bennet. Follow Lizzie's witty and endearing journey as she navigates love, family drama, and her own prejudices in the age of social media.

From battling zombies to modern-day mishaps, these books offer a variety of engaging experiences that pay homage to Jane Austen's timeless classic. So, why not embark on a journey of laughter, romance, and delightful surprises? Pick up one (or all!) of these books and let yourself be transported into a world where wit and charm abound. Happy reading!

[mandrocles]

The missing detail

I was belately reading Cory Doctorow's The End of the Road to Serfdom article about the fight by the ruling oligarchy of "the west" against too many resources being consumed by their working classes, and much of the content is a clear depiction of how successful that fight has been:

“Once that inequality tipping-point is reached, society grows inexorably more unequal and more unfair, as our rules change not merely to favor the rich, but to disfavor the poor”

“The thirty glorious years came to a halt at the end of the 1970s, when the wealth of the few had recovered to the point where the richest 10 percent could begin to nudge policy to their favor and everyone else’s detriment.”

“Margaret Thatcher, Ronald Reagan, Brian Mulroney and other neoliberal politicians swept into office on the back of a campaign to blame social mobility for oil shocks. Once these plutocrat-friendly politicians captured politics, they set about refashioning it, striking hard against labor rights and public institutions.”

“We’d go back belowstairs, we’d learn to tug our forelocks again. We’d stop competing with their inbred darlings for spots at top universities”

There is however a major issue with that story: it is missing an explanation of how it is possible that in developed countries where 80-90% of families derive their income from wages and pensions and social insurance, so many voted for cutting workers wages and pensions and social insurance. That is not consistent with only a small minority of “the rich” benefiting from big upward redistribution.

That missing explanation is both absolutely crucial to understanding the politics since Reagan and Thatcher and quite simple:

A large minority and perhaps even a plurality of workers have made a lot of money from rentierism, 20% to 40% of voters, so vote for more plutocracy, because they regard themselves as rentiers more than workers.

A lot more workers survive into old age and enjoy good pensions thanks to social-democratic policies, but have therefore turned from workers to full time rentiers. making rentiers a much larger percentage of voters. In the past many retirees lived thanks to the support of their working children, so had a direct stake in better wages and working conditions, now that they derive most of their income from their pension and real estate assets to them better wages have become an increased cost.

Those voters profited from enormous upward redistribution from those poorer than them thanks to being also owners of real estate assets (and stock shares in the USA), which have been doubling in price every 10 years for a long time.

The ruling class have not fooled many middle class voters into voting for lower wages and pensions and social insurance against the self-interests of those many voters; they have ensured alignment of interests by ensuring that decades of rising asset prices and rising rents redistributed to both the many middle class voters and the ruling class enormous amounts from the lower classes.

It is astonishing that the author of that article does not wonder why the governments of the past several decades in most of "the west" have been voting to lower wages, pensions, social insurance, and does not come to the obvious conclusion that for many middle class voters the colossal profits they make on their real estate (and stock shares) drive their voting (“From the minute the average couple buys a home they're constantly calculating how much they'll make when they sell it””). The past several decades have been the era of mass rentierism.

It is largely futile to complain about the increase in inequality without taking into account mass rentierism, and in particular that many if not most of the potential political leaders of the workers are real estate (and stock shares) speculators and are making enormous profits from them and badly want to continue to make them at the expense of everybody else.

It is not at all surprising to me that those potential leaders and so many middle class voters are keen on the politics of identity conflicts rather than on the politics of conflicts of interests, because their interests are not aligned with those of most workers.

It will be possible to change policies only when a large part of the middle class reckon that good wages and pensions and social insurance are more valuable and more secure than the enormous profits they have been making on asset speculation.

[theoldfashionedsociety]

Old Fashioned Review #181, Below Stairs, Leeds @belowstairsbar

After sampling a fine Old Fashioned at the Dakota Hotel’s cocktail bar, The Brigadier did ask the Barman for a recommendation for another of his favourite cocktails. He was henceforth pointed in the direction of a bar that was indeed below stairs and even street level.

On entering said establishment with Lady Hunter of Northumbria, The Brigadier was concerned that the establishment was a little quiet. But the enthusiasm of one of the Barmen filled The Brigadier with confidence and his trust was rewarded with a very fine Kentucky Whisky laced Old Fashioned.

One hopes that this establishment gains more clientele as a result of this post as the mixologists, location and art on display, do demand the attention of members of The Society and it’s readers.

Therefore a score of 7.5 from 10 is bestowed on this establishment.

[notbecauseofvictories]

I’m going to the conservatory and the zoo tomorrow; treating myself like a blue-haired senior who needs to be bused from her retirement home to on weekends for cultural enrichment.

[plague-of-insomnia]

Ch 176: The Gist*

The chapter doesn’t go back father into the past as I had expected, but instead jumps to the manor, where Bard is introduced to his new boss, the other servants, and his new life as a chef.

However, Bard is a soldier. He’s crass. He just lost everyone, is in a foreign place with a kid for a master, a weak woman and child as fellow servants, and a pretty-boy butler (yeah fairly sure he calls Sebastian that to his face, hence the look of shock). So he’s got some major attitude....

Especially since his first impression of the servants isn’t great. (I mean look at that unimpressed expression. You know he’s thinking “dammit, what the hell does this butler expect of me, be the kindergarten teacher or some shit?! I’m a fucking soldier and I’m expected to trust these idiots?!”)

Sebastian is more than happy to correct Bard’s sassy, disrespectful attitude toward the end of the chapter, with a punch to the face.

This chapter is pretty dense, and there are a few particularly interesting moments.

Such as who is Bard thinking of here? From what I can decipher, it doesn’t seem to be his son, though it’s possible it is and since Bard “doesn’t know how to deal with kids” (he says something to this effect), maybe he abandoned him? Another possibility is it’s a young Terry or even Bard when he was young.

Bard really wonders what the hell he’s doing... he’s clearly out of place in this manor and the role of “chef.”

Bard’s meeting with Ciel is intriguing, especially this moment. (Sadly, I can’t make out a lot here, but) clearly Ciel is aware of Bard’s past, which includes burning down a native village... Bard’s expression seems to say “yeah, (it was my job), what’s it to you?!” (Could Bard’s talent with fire be why he was hired?)

But by far one of the best moments is when Bard totally destroys a chicken (after Sebastian meticulously walked him through the steps for preparing one)—and this ultimately leads to that punch.

Sebastian: (politely, but basically is saying) What the fuck is this??!

Bard: Roast chicken...?

I’m very excited to read a non-blurry copy of this tomorrow.

(Note:* Spoilers for this chapter were very blurry and especially with my poor eyesight I couldn’t make out a lot of the text. I did my best with what I could decipher. Keep that in mind.)

[sanguinarysanguinity]

wip meme: door, snow, laundry

"Who will be causing the distraction? Won't you need to keep your eye on the study?"

"You will be the distraction, my dear boy. Something sufficiently loud and disturbing to draw them away from the study, and sufficiently arresting that all eyes but the spy's will be on you."

"Hence your instruction that I be seen tippling." A drunkard was far more capable of creating a scene than a sober man, of course.

"Precisely," he said, fussing over my tie. "Would you like suggestions for your distraction?"

I grinned, considering the possibilities. "Oh, I think I shall be able to manage."

"Good man," he approved. He stood back and gave me a careful once over. "And that is you presentable for dinner. Now if you'll excuse me, I am needed belowstairs." And with a wink, he let himself out the door, the character of Foreman settling over his shoulders as he went.

~

I carefully counted off three minutes -- time enough for Gibb and Lawton to get to the study and open the safe -- before making my own unsteady way out of the room. I, however, only went to the grand entry, central to the whole house. There, I eyed the stately Fraser fir, its lanterns now lit for the party. I hoped no one had been so prudent as to actually secure it to the wall, but I had my pocket knife, if it came to that.

It took more work than I supposed -- and indeed, some judicious application of the pocket knife -- to bring that great tree down. But come down it did in a great crash of branches and ornaments, its bulk partially blocking the grand staircase, the filigreed brass lanterns clanging loudly on the flagstones of the hall. Some of the lanterns extinguished themselves in the fall, but I could see that many were still burning, a few with their doors ajar from the impact. I threw my lit cigar into the mess to add its smoke to the verisimilitude, and wished for one of Holmes' smoke rockets.

"Fire!" I cried out, for the benefit of those too far away to hear the crash. "Oh, I do say, fire!"

Guests poured into the entry hall, first the women from the nearby parlour, then the men running down the corridor from the more distant billiard room. There was a satisfying commotion of raised voices, amplified by the high ceilings of the hall, and I continued to bellow my alarm over the top, making sure to occasionally stagger drunkenly. One young naval officer wearing a modest splash of gold lace took charge, bellowing orders, and servants ran for water, even though there were no actual flames in evidence. It took another minute for Gibb and Lawton to appear, and Gibb pushed his way through the crowd, demanding to know what had happened. Consensus correctly presumed that I had brought the tree down somehow, incorrectly presumed I was drunk, and was evenly split as to whether the tree was actually on fire or not.

The look Gibb gave me was exasperated and very nearly betrayed, and I felt a pang of remorse. But he sighed heavily at his once-handsome tree -- now misshapen, sodden, and somewhat trampled -- and ordered it to be dragged outside into the snow. I was escorted to my room in public disgrace, and a pot of coffee sent up after me.

It was two a.m. and I was nearing the end of my novel when Holmes came in. "You're a terrible valet," I chided him. "They wanted someone sober to take charge of me, and you weren't to be found anywhere."

"And you're a terrible houseguest," he replied. "I'm told there were family heirlooms on that tree."

I winced; I owed Gibb a pretty apology. "Were they at least sacrificed for a good cause? Have you found your spy?"

~

We ran aground in the room he had designated as mine, but which I had not used since moving in. Holmes' bees had once filled the small space with purpose and energy, but now the air was stale, the room empty and desolate. The razor and brush by the basin belonged to no one, decoys from a shop in Eastbourne. It wouldn't require a detective to know that I slept and shaved in Holmes' room, the two of us maneuvering for preference at his shaving mirror.

Our shaving mirror, rather.

"Come," I said, drawing him toward the bed, smaller than the one we shared. "This room smells shut up, as if no one lives here. Help me remedy that."

"It'd be more efficient to simply air it," he said, but came to me. "Which we would have to do anyway. And Martha will be cross that we've put her to extra laundry for no good reason."

[wicked-game-black-butler]

Congrats again on your milestone :)... how about a Sebard bulletpoint thingie? What if all the other servants were out on assignment so Bard and Seb were alone belowstairs?

I think it goes without saying that this is going to be nsfw. ;) 

Bard had overslept and arrived late to breakfast. This meant that, in addition to missing the best of the food, he had also not been present for Sebastian’s announcement of the day’s agenda. A fact the butler used to his advantage. The other servant’s were due to depart half past one to purchase needed goods for the manor and weren’t supposed to arrive back until late this evening. As soon as his master had made him aware of those plans, his mind set to work, concocting all sorts of ideas of how he might spend the hours in between. 

Sebastian teased Bard all morning. He started subtly at first, but not so subtle that the cook would not take notice- a quick, but heated glance as he passed by the kitchen, “accidentally” brushing up against the cook’s arm when he encountered him in the hall. All things he knew would pique than man’s interest. Soon he switched to a more direct approach. He brushed his fingers over Bard’s calloused hand, their eyes meeting with a meaningful look as he worked the spoon from the other man’s fingers. Bard had audibly gulped when Sebastian had bent over, making a point to part the tails of his coat so the way his trousers clung to his ass and balls was on perfect display. And he had managed to draw a groan from the cook when he slipped behind him as the blond reached for a tin from one of the top shelves of the dry pantry, firmly grabbing his hip with one hand while he reached up to brush the other man’s hand out of the way and pressed him against the shelves, making sure to rub his clothed, hardening cock against the divet between Bard’s pert cheeks. Another groan fell from Bard’s lips, grinding back against the butler’s hips. Though a moment later, his groan was cut off with a curse as Sebastian slipped the tin into his hand and left without a word, leaving him half-hard and alone.

Sebastian didn’t allow Bard to corner him until after the servants had departed. But when he did, he knew he had riled the cook the way he had intended. He had gone down to the wine cellar, sure Bard would follow him. When he finally made his presence known, he charged over to Sebastian and roughly grabbed his shoulders, pushing him firmly back against the wall. 

 “You bastard. You knew they were leaving, didn’t you?” 

 Sebastian merely smirked. “Perhaps.”

Blue met mahogany as a tense, expectant silence fell between the two. 

“Now,” Sebastian purred, loosening his tie, “What do you plan on doing with that knowledge?”

Ever a man of action, Bard answered with a kiss. It was hot, searing, and full of the craving Sebastian loved to taste on his lips.

Their hands were everywhere-touching, kneading, groping. Until Bard couldn’t hold off any longer and Sebastian turned to face the wall, pants around his ankles. 

He stopped the cook when his fingers brushed over his puckering hole, a pre-cum slick finger nudging his entrance. He didn’t want to wait. Bard was hesitant, but eventually relented when Sebastian did all but beg for his cock. His stomach tensed with anticipation as the head of Bard’s cock pressed against him. He knew it would hurt. It would be painful. He would tear. He would bleed. But he wanted it that way. 

The sex was fast, hard, and dizzyingly satisfying. Their moans and curses echoed off stone, until it culminated in cries of ecstasy. Sebastian’s release painted the walls. 

Bard followed Sebastian’s orders to follow him to his quarters. He had full intentions of caring for his lover after such aggressive shagging, but as soon as they had crossed the threshold, the butler had slammed the door with a bang, pushing him against it, capturing his lips in a long, sensual kiss. 

Clothes fell to the floor, trailing the path they took to Sebastian’s bed. This was the only time the butler ever removed his gloves. The first time he had done so, Bard had asked about the mark on his hand and the unusual color of his fingernails. Sebastian simply explained that his nails were colored because of a rare genetic defect, and the mark on his hand, a brand of his servitude. Though he certainly had more questions, Bard never brought up the issue again. They were all entitled to their secrets.

Bard gazed up at the raven-haired man, wondering how he ever ended up with such a god of a man. He smiled, knowing Sebastian would laugh at such a thought. Surely with as skilled as he was in pleasure, he wasn’t a god. He was a devil.

The bed creaked under their movements, the pace slower, drawn out, intimate. Sebastian brought Bard to the edge again...and again...and again. Until the he thought he might actually cry if he was denied one more time.

Mercifully, when Sebastian let him finish, Bard’s vision went white, back arching, and toes curling as his release coated their sweat-slick chests.

Afterward, Sebastian drew them a bath where they would soak together for a good hour or so. Basking in their release and the rare quiet about the manor. Things became heated once more when Sebastian leaned back against Bard, making sure to rub up against his cock. Bard had objected, though he was already half-hard, saying that the butler should rest and recover. Sebastian only partly agreed. He finally relented when Bard agreed to let him suck him off. 

As hot as he found Sebastian during sex, his favorite view of the butler was when he was between his knees, deep throating his generous girth. He finished several minutes later, Sebastian moaning as he greedily swallowed every drop of his release. 

Only then did the two truly relax together. This being one of the rare occasions when Sebastian would allow Bard to hold him. They would stay like this for a little while longer until the clock chimed seven, announcing the time when the other servants would be returning. At that they would rise, dry off and dress, and venture to greet the others. Though Mey-Rin and Finny were oblivious as they babbled on about what they had acquired, a subtle smile spread Tanaka’s lips when he caught the last second of a knowing glance the butler and cook shared before looking away.

Thank you for this ask! And thank you for being patient while I worked on it. It took awhile to get down, but I hope you liked it. 

And thank you again for all the ways you support me and my work. You are amazing and I appreciate you so much! <3 <3 <3 

[ao3feed-merlinarthur]

by irrelevant

The lord and lady lately come to court are a passing strange pair. By the common reckoning, they’re siblings travelling together in search of their misplaced brother. According to the belowstairs vine, they’re looking out a stolen artefact of some sort. Possibly an artefact stolen by the brother? Whatever, Merlin couldn’t care less about them or their brother (and his little artefact too) so long as none of them enchant, cause harm to, and/or murder Arthur whilst they’re in town.

Right, so that’s... going to happen. This time. No, really.

Words: 7603, Chapters: 1/15, Language: English

Fandoms: Merlin (TV), Arthurian Mythology

Rating: General Audiences

Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply

Categories: M/M

Characters: canon ensemble, Characters from Brythonic Mythology, Characters from Arthurian Mythology

Relationships: Merlin/Arthur Pendragon

Additional Tags: Myrddyn Unmoored, Quest fic, completely self indulgent, Dodgy Humour, that's sort of a given, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, a mote in a goddess’s eye, Eventual Magic Reveal, slooooowwww burn, like glaciers moving slow, what is this canon you speak of, I do what I want, by which I mean, gratuitous corruption of Brythonic mythology, also anachronistic af, this is BBC fantasy not history (it’s not Sparta either)

[grifalinas]

Movie: -has a big ol party scene and splits the shots between the extravagant and carefully controlled upper class side and the rowdy and unruly servant party belowstairs-

Me: -loses it every time-