#billiards service

[pooltablemoversla]

Pool Table Movers Los Angeles County CA - Trusted Billiards

Understanding Pool Table Moving Services

Pool Table Movers Los Angeles offers a wide range of services that are essential to the safe and efficient movement of pool tables. Understanding pool table moving services will help you appreciate the complexity. The moving services are available for both residential and business needs, and ensure precision and quality in each task. Pool tables are heavy and require special handling, packaging, as well as unique transportation methods. Here is where Pool Table Movers Los' expertise comes into play. The van is specially designed with a rail box and slate box to ensure the safety of your pool table. They also cover a large service area including Ventura County and Santa Barbara County.

Pool Table Repair Professionals are Important

Professional repair services are essential to maintain the functionality and durability of pool tables. Repairs of pool tables are best performed by experts with many years of experience. This ensures that the tables maintain their performance and quality. Professional pool table repair services are essential for the proper disassembly and repair of pool tables that can weigh up to 1,200 lbs. Professionals who are trained to repair pool tables can prevent costly mistakes. This is especially true when refelting the table or relocating it. It is wise to hire professionals for pool table repairs in areas such as Orange County. This ensures the table's longevity, protecting the owner’s investment and providing countless hours of gaming for years to come.

The Closer Look at Refelting and Recovery

Refelting and recovery are two of the most important services in pool table maintenance. Pool table movers Los Angeles provide both tasks to maintain a high-quality, smooth playing surface. Pool table repair experts restore damaged billiard fabrics and recreate the ideal playing surface. They transform your game and improve gameplay. ServiceDescription Refelting Replaces worn out felt to restore smoothness and improve ball roll. Recovering This involves removing the old cloth and replacing with a new one to ensure optimal playing conditions.

Los Angeles pool table movers are experts in the field of pool table repair. This includes refelting, recovering and refinishing.

Service List: Pool Table Movers Los Angeles

Pool Table Movers Los Angeles offers a wide range of services, including installation, repair, and refelting. They offer a range of services to keep your pool table in top condition.

Moving Services They will disassemble your pool table and transport it to a new place, making sure that it is transported safely and then reinstalled.

Installation Services: They handle everything from uncrating slates to leveling tables.

Repair Services: Includes refelting and leveling as well as bumper replacement.

Free Quote Services: They offer free quotes on all services, as they understand the importance of budgeting.

You can choose Pool Table Movers Los Angeles to receive a professional and hassle-free service.

Residential vs Commercial Pool Tables

To better understand the skill and expertise needed to handle them, it is important to know the difference between residential and commercial tables. Residential tables are usually smaller and have decorative elements. They're ideal for use at home. Commercial pool tables, on the other hand, are designed to be used frequently in public places like bars or clubs. They're more durable and built for heavy use.

Let's look at the table below to illustrate: AspectResidential pool tablesCommercial Pool Tables Size Smaller Larger Construction Decorative and Customizable Sturdier and Durable Use Home Use Public Spaces

You can choose Pool Table Movers Los Angeles to meet all of your pool table requirements for a number of compelling reasons.

Experience and Expertise With more than 18 years of experience in the industry, we have mastered moving, installing, and repairing all types and sizes pool tables.

Safe and secure moves We use specialized equipment to move your pool tables and make sure the slate box is secured.

Comprehensive Service We offer not only moving and installing pool tables but also recovering, recushioning and repair services.

Wide coverage area: We provide services to customers throughout Southern California.

Our commitment to provide a high-quality and reliable service is demonstrated by these reasons for choosing our services.

Southern California Areas covered by Service

Pool Table Movers Los Angeles offers comprehensive moving services throughout Southern California. This includes Ventura County and Santa Barbara County. It also covers the West Side/South Bay area, San Fernando Valley, San Gabriel Valley Antelope Valley Long Beach, Valencia, Pomona, Goleta, and Long Beach. They offer superior moving services to those living in San Bernardino County. Area Covered Availability Ventura County Moving, Installation and Repairs Yes, Santa Barbara County Setup, Moving, Reclussing Yes, San Bernardino County Recarpeting, Moving, and Storage Yes, Long Beach Installing, Moving and Setting Up Yes, San Gabriel Valley Moving, Recushioning and Repairs Yes,

We offer a level of service that is second to none.

FAQs

How much does it cost to move a billiard table?

The price of moving a pool table depends on several factors. These include the size and weight of the table, the distance to be covered, and the difficulty of disassembling and reassembling the table. The price may be affected by additional services like recushioning and re-carpeting. To compare costs, it's best to get quotes from several professional movers. Contacting the company directly is usually the best way to obtain a free or firm quote.

How much does it cost to have someone set up a pool table?

Costs for setting up a pooltable can vary depending on a number of factors. These include the type and size of the table, the location and any other services needed. This may include leveling the pool table, replacing felt or adjusting rails. To ensure proper installation, and to prevent damage, it's best to hire a professional. It's best that you contact a pool table professional for an accurate estimate.

Can you move a pool table without professionals?

It is possible to move a pool-table without the help of professionals, but it's not recommended. Pool tables are heavy, complex pieces of furniture which require expert handling. The wrong disassembly and reassembly of a pool table can cause damage or imbalance. Imagine moving a table weighing 1,200 pounds with delicate slate. The risk of damage would be high. Hiring professionals will ensure safe transport and proper setup so you can enjoy your pool table with no hassle.

Do you tip pool table movers?

Tipping pool table movers or other service providers is common and an excellent way to thank them for their work. Tipping can be varied, but the standard is 5-10% of total service costs or $20 to $40 per mover. You can consider tipping extra if you feel the movers did a great job. Tipping is appreciated but not mandatory.

[absolutebilliards]

Relocate Your Pool Table with Ease: Absolute Billiard Services in the Atlanta Metro Area

Moving a pool table can often be a daunting task, filled with challenges that require both expertise and careful handling. For residents in the Atlanta Metro Area, Absolute Billiard Services provides a straightforward and effective solution for relocating pool tables with ease. Their commitment to quality service and customer satisfaction sets them apart as the premier choice for anyone looking to move their table without the usual stress and hassle.

Absolute Billiard Services understands that a pool table is not just a piece of furniture; it’s an investment and a centerpiece for entertainment. These tables are heavy and delicately constructed, featuring components like slate and felt that can easily sustain damage if not treated properly. The skilled technicians at Absolute Billiard Services are trained in the intricacies of pool table relocation. They begin by carefully disassembling the table, ensuring that each part is safely handled and packed for transport. This meticulous attention to detail guarantees that your table will arrive at its new location in perfect condition.

What sets Absolute Billiard Services apart is their comprehensive range of services. In addition to moving your pool table, they also offer maintenance options such as refelting and leveling. If your table is in need of a refresh, their experienced team can take care of it during the relocation process. This all-in-one service means you can have your table expertly moved and restored without the hassle of scheduling multiple appointments.

Customer satisfaction is at the heart of Absolute Billiard Services’ operations. Their team prioritizes clear communication and punctuality, ensuring that you are informed and comfortable throughout the entire moving process. They understand that relocating a pool table is often a significant undertaking, and their friendly professionals work hard to make it as smooth and efficient as possible.

Moreover, Absolute Billiard Services offers competitive pricing for their high-quality services, making them an affordable option for those in the Atlanta Metro Area. They provide transparent quotes and work with clients to accommodate various budgets and needs, ensuring everyone can benefit from their expertise.

In summary, if you’re looking to relocate your pool table with ease in the Atlanta Metro Area, Absolute Billiard Services is the trusted choice. Their experienced team, attention to detail, and commitment to customer satisfaction make the entire process simple and worry-free. Let Absolute Billiard Services take the stress out of your pool table move, allowing you to focus on what really matters—enjoying your game in a new space.

[allamericanbilliards]

All American Billiards

At All American Billiards, we are the only billiards company in Lee and Collier County with Olhausen and Brunswick certified technicians. We have also been serving or sub-contracting for the biggest names in billiards in South West Florida since 2005, such as Redenbaugh Billiards (Jack Redenbaugh) ,

Rec Room Furniture & Games , and Zing Furniture. Don’t let just anyone service your pool table. Call the best. We let our work speak for itself.

[giuliettagaltieri]

One of Them

Pairing: Rafe Cameron x Lovesick!Reader

Chapter Synopsis: Rafe, middle name: SIMP, Cameron, at your service

Warning: None

Word Count: 1196

Ficlet from Lovesick Little Thing

As young men of Outer Banks are to inherit the family names of their fathers, to become the sole proprietor of their multi-million businesses, possibly run for office, to someday become the leaders and catalyst of change, they made sure to become acquainted with each other and to never fail to attend the meeting they hold in a random house they elect every first Friday night of the month.  And there was only one single rule that none of them can ever break.  No girls allowed.

It started with their fear of cooties, and then their fear of hormonal mood swings of budding women, and none of them got over it as they grew older.  It was the leader of the pack, Rafe Cameron, who came up with the stupid idea.  He was so strict with it that he threatened to kick out anyone who tries to bring a chick to these meetings. 

They were to wear formal clothing, completed with ties, polished shoes, and crisp suits like the fine gentlemen that they are.  Anybody who fails to come in the expected outfit shall be refused a seat at the table.

Imagine the look of surprise when they arrive in Tanneyhill with you sleeping snugly, cuddling with Rafe, who is dressed in linen pants and opened button down shirt, with his bare feet visible for everybody to see!

They all halted their steps.  Eyes wide and questioning as they look at you and then at Rafe and is that a plushie tucked under his arm?

All of them stood by the doorway, some struggling to stick their heads in to see what’s holding everybody up. 

“Is the monthly meeting canceled?”  Somebody asks and Rafe rolls his eyes.

“You guys coming in or what?”  Rafe snaps, making you stir in your sleep but Rafe puts a hand behind your head to let you rest against his arm again.  You hook a leg over his and as soon as you’re knocked out, Rafe turns to the huddled men over the doorway.  If it isn’t for Topper, nobody would have dared to cross the threshold.

It was uncomfortable for them.  There was music playing but they didn’t have the usual Vivaldi and Paganini that boomed around the room.  It was some stupid lullaby that Kelce played, because Rafe would have their heads rolling if they dared to disturb your sleep.

They weren’t used to the usual hushed way of talking but Rafe glared daggers at anyone who wasn’t whispering.  Nobody played billiards or cards in fear that they might get too excited and wake you up.

But like a good host, Rafe let them drink Tanneyhill’s stash of alcohol. 

Problem was he made Topper and Kelce the fucking baristas.  No more than two crystal glasses of the vintage liquor.

When you finally stirred awake, they were relieved, finally they could get the party started.

Or so they thought.

You were suddenly craving fries and sundae.

Rafe had to go. 

Of course, you felt bad, and even insisted that you go alone.  His guests nodded at Rafe, hoping he’ll listen.  As much of an asshole Rafe is, they didn’t feel like partying without him.

But everything you say goes over his head as he gathers his keys and wallet.

You were still talking when he put a hand on the small of your back, you were looking at his guests apologetically and the jackass didn’t even spare them a glance.

“What an asshole.”  Somebody in the crowd murmurs sadly and all of them nod in agreement, the dampened mood worsening.  “I even brought his favorite cigar.”

Kelce glances at Topper and they sigh in unison.  They’ll have to excuse Rafe.  He has been without your attention for a while, he just had to hog you for himself.

“Rafe, that wasn’t so nice.  You are hosting the party, you should stay behind.”  You refuse to get inside his car and he looks at you blankly while he keeps the door open for you.  “I can go to the diner by myself.”

Rafe rolls his eyes and before you can say anything else, he is lifting you up on the passenger seat.  You talk his ear off, lecturing him as he works on fastening your seatbelt for you.

“You will leave a bad impression.”  You fume, cheeks slightly bubbled, and he sighs, bowing his head before glancing at you, his corded arms are gripping the sides of your seat, trapping you in.  The atmosphere suddenly grew thick, making your voice die in your throat.

Gulping, you shut your mouth and averted his gaze.

“You done?”  He spoke lowly.

Not able to find your voice, you just nodded at him, eyes busy studying the gems on your watch.  Rafe nods back and heads over to the driver’s seat.  He looks at you one last time before revving up the car, roaring the engine just the way you hated before speeding off.

You weren’t talking to him and Rafe decides to leave you for now.  But he does place a warm hand over your knee to let you know he’s willing to talk as soon as you are.

The trees are getting pretty boring, so are the enormous mansions in your neighborhood.

“Should we get them burgers?”  You spoke softly, nimble hands playing with the seatbelt.  You eye his pretty hands and reach for it but he had to move the gear shift.  A pout formed on your lips but Rafe places his hand on your bare thigh now.  His grip makes your heart beat uncontrollably.

“If you want, baby.”  He says while he rides his hands upwards. 

His hands were getting dangerously close to your heat that you had to clear your throat.  Rafe grins and lowers his hand back to your midthigh.  He doesn’t make a comment when he hears you breathe out a sigh of relief.

The downturned faces of Rafe’s guests brighten up at the sight of you and the bags and bags and bags of burgers you insisted on carrying just for them. 

Rafe saunters behind you, face passive as he twirls his keys on his finger.  Rafe’s eyes are trailed on the back of your thighs as you pass around the burgers to the now grinning men.

They didn’t like your intrusion at first but you got Rafe wrapped around your finger and they can for sure use that to their advantage.

“Oh man, I’d love to have something sweet after this.”  Somebody sighs as he looks at his burger.  You perk up at that.

“Should I get Rafe to order dessert for all of us?”  You wonder out loud, a chorus of cheers echoes around the room and Kelce taps Rafe’s shoulders in sympathy as the latter groans but fishes his phone out of his pocket anyway.

Topper swings an arm over Rafe’s shoulder.  “Yeah, you definitely should, Y/N.  Tell him to get us those overpriced cookies they sell on the other side of the island.”

Rafe accidentally jabs an elbow on Topper’s rib but as soon as you heard, your eyes lit up and Rafe knew he just had to do it.

“Anything for my girl.”

Lovesick Little Thing • Coming Soon

[julienbakerstreet]

Most audacious claims from Baring-Gould's biography of Sherlock Holmes:

Moriarty was briefly Holmes' childhood math tutor and they hated each other.

Lewis Carroll was Holmes' professor at Oxford and they became good friends.

Holmes met Karl Marx and hung out with his anarchist friends because of their shared interest in assassinations, but wasn’t interested in politics enough to pay attention to Marx's economic theory or attach any significance to it.

Holmes toured America as an actor where he acquired a taste for oysters, met Chicago gangsters, and gained a firsthand knowledge of buffaloes.

Holmes had a lifelong feud with George Bernard Shaw over Shaw's opinion of Sarasate.

Holmes and Irene Adler had a lovechild during the hiatus who grew up to be Rex Stout’s detective Nero Wolfe.

Sherlock Holmes solved the Ripper murders. Watson also solved the Ripper murders, independently of Holmes.

Watson wanted Holmes to marry Violet Hunter so they could have a double wedding.

Holmes particularly liked to assist clients named Violet because it was his mother’s name.

Holmes spent part of the hiatus researching the Yeti at the behest of the Dalai Lama. He discovered the Yeti but found him "a mild, inoffensive creature" and kept its existence a secret so it wouldn't be hunted or imprisoned in a zoo.

During the hiatus, Holmes became the first person to make a partial ascent of Mount Everest. He was able to do this because the Vernet branch of his family are natural-born mountain climbers.

Holmes fought a pterodactyl that his cousin, Professor Challenger, brought to London. Watson saved Holmes from the pterodactyl by killing it.

Watson was an amazing billiards player and he only ever played with the chief maker of billiards in England.

Holmes started eating royal jelly from his bees to prolong his life and lived to 103. He gave Mycroft this royal jelly as well, which allowed him to be the head of the British Secret Service through both World Wars.

Source: Sherlock Holmes of Baker Street: A Life of the World's First Consulting Detective, William Baring-Gould, 1962

[herkonular]

MALDİVESBET - GOLD

Maldives Bet is an online betting platform that offers a wide range of betting options to players in the Maldives. Maldives, a popular destination for tourists and travelers, has a growing demand for online betting services and Maldives Bet aims to meet this need. The platform has been designed to be user-friendly and accessible, with a range of features and benefits that make it an attractive choice for both novice and experienced punters. One of the key advantages of using Maldives bet for online betting is the wide range of betting options available. The platform offers a wide range of sports and events to bet on, from popular sports such as football and basketball to niche options such as darts and billiards. Additionally, Maldives Bet also offers a variety of casino games including slots, table games and live dealer options. This diversity ensures there is something for everyone, whatever their interests or preferences. Apart from the betting options available, there are many other advantages of using Maldives Betting for online betting. Firstly, the platform is designed to be secure and reliable, with strong encryption and data protection measures to protect user information and transactions. In addition, Maldives Bet offers competitive odds and bonuses, allowing players to maximize their winnings and enjoy a more rewarding betting experience. Finally, the platform is backed by a dedicated customer service team that is available 24/7 to assist with any questions or issues that may arise. Overall, Maldives Bet is a comprehensive and reliable online betting platform that offers a variety of benefits to players in the Maldives and beyond.

[polyphonical]

Enstars Memories Road - Class 3A

Location: 3-A Classroom

Eichi: Welcome to Yumenosaki’s Class 3-A.

Izumi: Aren’t you acting a bit too pretentious right at the start? It’s just like Tenshouin to act all suspicious though.

Eichi: Fufu. It’s just my own type of service. I thought it’d be fun to recreate the way I met Anzu-chan. That fits with the theme of the show, right?`

Kaoru: My first meeting with Anzu-chan… That’s something I don’t really wanna think of. It’s a part of my dark past.

Izumi: You just chased Anzu around right?

Kaoru: I only called out to her when I saw her, I didn’t chase her… Well, I don’t wanna hear anything about chasing someone around from you, Senacchi.

Izumi: Hah? Look, Yuu-kun and I mutually love each other, so I wasn’t chasing anyone around, got it?

Keito: Hakaze didn’t even mention Yuuki’s name though? Glad to know you're at least a little bit aware.

Madara: Anzu-san used to be pretty wary of Kaoru-san, so she hid behind me once to avoid him.

Do you remember that, Anzu-san? …Yes yes, I’m talking about that time we played billiards[1] together. Mama’s glad you remembered that ☆

Keito: Billiards? I wasn’t aware you had a hobby like that, Anzu.

Eichi: … You said “I’m not good at it enough to call it a hobby”? There’s no such thing as being good or bad at a hobby.

Alright. Then, how about we play a game after we finish recording? If you beat me, I’ll buy you anything you want…♪

Chiaki: I’d love to join! I never played billiards before, but I always wanted to try…☆

Kaoru: Ahaha, one of Moricchi’s charm points is that he can manage to squeeze himself into the smallest of gaps～

Izumi: You're acting all adult like just standing on the sidelines like that. Are you going to join them? You look like someone who’d be good at billiards.

Kaoru: As a matter of fact, I am good at it. Then, let me join in and show off a bit♪

Chiaki: Haha, this reminds me of that time we all went to the arcade together after school[2]…☆

Shu: I remember that very well. I had no choice but to join you all when Tenshouin threatened me by saying, “If you don’t come with us, I’ll blow up Mademoiselle♪”

…But I will say that it was a good memory of mine, since I was able to spend my time like a regular student would.

─────────· · · · · ·♡· · · · · · ────────

Referring to Billiards !

Reffering to WANTED!!!

[calisources]

𝐓𝐇𝐑𝐎𝐍𝐄   𝐎𝐅   𝐆𝐋𝐀𝐒𝐒   𝐐𝐔𝐎𝐓𝐄𝐒   all   quotes   and   sentences   are   taken   from   sarah   j.   mass's   throne   of   glass.   spoilers   for   the   book.   change   names,   pronouns,   locations   and   whatever   else   you   see   fit.

“Libraries were full of ideas—perhaps the most dangerous and powerful of all weapons.”

"You could do anything, if only you dared. And deep down, you know it, too. That’s what scares you most.”

“No. I can survive well enough on my own— if given the proper reading material.”

We all bear scars,... Mine just happen to be more visible than most.”

“My name is Celaena Sardothien. But it makes no difference if my name's Celaena or Lillian or Bitch, because I'd still beat you, no matter what you call me.”

“Names are not important. It's what lies inside of you that matters.”

“Still, the image haunted his dreams throughout the night: a lovely girl gazing at the stars, and the stars who gazed back.”

“Sometimes, the wicked will tell us things just to confuse us–to haunt our thoughts long after we've faced them.”

"No fair maiden should die alone,"

“We each survive in our own way.”

“As my friend, you should either bring me along, or keep me company."

“Second place is a nice title for the first loser.”

“I wasn't going to kill him, you buffoon.”

"Now you must pretend that you like me, or else everything will be ruined.”

“I'm not married,because I can't stomach the idea of marrying a woman inferior to me in mind and spirit. It would mean the death of my soul.”

“Apparently, a woman can only go so long without a sword between her hands.”

“I never intended to escape.”

“I don't quite comprehend why you'd force someone to bow when the purpose of the gesture is to display allegiance and respect.”

“What's the point in having a mind if you don't use it to make judgements?”

“Would you like to dance with me?”

“If he weren’t here, I would have said yes.”

“I mean it. Why aren’t you dancing with anyone? Aren’t there ladies whom you like?”

“You always wear that necklace”

“No one deserves to be whipped like an animal.”

“You’re remarkably judgmental.”

“Magic makes people dangerous. ”

“The fear of loss … it can destroy you as much as the loss itself.” 

“There was good in people - deep down, there was always a shred of good.”

Well, 'scowling escort' is a better description. Or 'reluctant acquaintance', if you prefer.

I'm the Captain of the Guard-I'm not exactly a catch for any of them."

I want a husband to warm my bed, and my bed alone.

"I can act and talk like a lady, if it pleases me.

“If you'd like to unwrap me, we still have an hour until the temple service.”

“Perhaps you should consider your difficulty in getting past Wendlyn's naval defences to be a sign that you should stop playing at being a god."

“You deserve to be laughed at for such foolish thoughts! I spoke from my soul; you speak only from selfishness.”

“What’s the point in having a heart if you don’t use it to spare others from the harsh judgments of your mind?”

“Marriage is a legal contract -- it's not a sacred thing.”

“I hate women like that. They're so desperate for the attention of men that they'd willingly betray and harm members of their own sex.”

“I was merely observing; I have no agenda."

"If it pleases Your Magnanimous Holiness, I shall call you by your first name.”

 “You look rather pretty today,”

“Shall I gag you, or are you capable of being silent without my assistance?”

“If you don’t stop feeling and start instructing, I’m going to rip out your eyes and replace them with these billiard balls.”

“Perhaps allowing them to be friends was a horrible, dangerous idea.”

“I win,” he breathed.”

 “I am still your king. You will obey me, Dorian Havilliard, or you will pay. I’ll have no more of your questioning.”

“I can survive well enough on my own—if given proper reading material.”

“Beautiful. Deadly. Destined for greatness.”

“This is the most beautiful dress I’ve ever worn,”

“You could win the hand of a king, looking like that.Or perhaps a Crown Prince will do.”

“What a miserable state for a girl of former beauty!”

“This is Her Royal Highness the Princess Nehemia Ytger of Eyllwe.”

“The princess tires of your company.”

“You’re awfully quiet today,” 

“The city on the Silver Lake?

“to face a featureless young woman with golden hair and a crown far too heavy for her to bear—”

“Stop whining. No one gives a damn about your clothes.”

“You’re immensely entertaining when you’re hopping mad.”

“You certainly have a lot of stamina,"

"While some parents hit their children, mine also punished me with dancing lessons."

“Magic calls to magic.”

I like music,because when I hear it, I … I lose myself within myself, if that makes sense. I become empty and full all at once, and I can feel the whole earth roiling around me.”

“Light and darkness. Life and death. Where do I fit in?”

“I should go to bed,”

“Winter was unforgiving when you lived in the shadow of the Ruhnn Mountains.”

“I  sort of wanted to kiss him.”

“Are you going to kiss me again?”

“Cain seemed bigger and bigger.”

“Dorian is more inclined to associate with ladies of better breeding and beauty.”

“What a foolish tradition.”

“Princes are not supposed to be handsome! They’re sniveling, stupid, repulsive creatures! This one … this … How unfair of him to be royal and beautiful.”

“Something about him makes me want to beat in his face.”

“She knew that sword. Nothung was its name.”

“Damn him for being so handsome!”

[episims]

Blair This is the old me kind of place. What would my inner plantsim do? That café I passed might have relaxing teas... or should I only drink water?

Blair Oh, but something about this pub really resonates with me. That can't be a bad sign.

"Welcome, customer. Would you like to make an order?"

Blair "Is this some kind of free labor nonsense...? Damn it. Capitalism should get blown up."

"Unknown command. This service currently has 48 titles. If you want me to recite the drink list, please sit by the counter."

Felix "Hey, uh... you're new here? Not really worth it to talk with those androids."

Blair "Thanks for the tip, cutie. You seem much more the type I enjoy talking with, too"

Felix "You enjoy talking with gay men?"

Blair "...Bummer. I hope your pretty ass is at least available to beat in billiards."

Felix "That's confident from someone I just caught lecturing a robot, but sure. You're welcome to try."

[idanit]

I don't think I've seen people talk about this, but it bothers me.

In "Leave It to Jeeves", Jeeves talks of his former employer:

“I wonder if I have ever happened to mention to you, sir, a Mr. Digby Thistleton, with whom I was once in service? Perhaps you have met him? He was a financier. He is now Lord Bridgnorth. It was a favourite saying of his that there is always a way. The first time I heard him use the expression was after the failure of a patent depilatory which he promoted. (...) His depilatory failed, but he did not despair. He put it on the market again under the name of Hair-o, guaranteed to produce a full crop of hair in a few months. It was advertised, if you remember, sir, by a humorous picture of a billiard-ball, before and after taking, and made such a substantial fortune that Mr. Thistleton was soon afterwards elevated to the peerage for services to his Party. It seems to me that, if Mr. Corcoran looks into the matter, he will find, like Mr. Thistleton, that there is always a way.

In "Jeeves and the Hard-Boiled Egg," he likewise mentions him:

“It was a maxim of one of my former employers, sir⁠—as I believe I mentioned to you once before⁠—the present Lord Bridgnorth, that there is always a way. I remember his lordship using the expression on the occasion⁠—he was then a business gentleman and had not yet received his title⁠—when a patent hair-restorer which he chanced to be promoting failed to attract the public. He put it on the market under another name as a depilatory, and amassed a substantial fortune. I have generally found his lordship’s aphorism based on sound foundations.

Doylistically, I think this is Wodehouse reusing his bits and tripping up, or maybe making a little in-joke for the readers who know and remember his previous stories. But watsonianly, what is happening here? Lord Bridgnorth couldn't possibly have made a depilatory that failed, rebranded it as Hair-O, amassed a fortune and a title, then made a hair restorer despite already having a successful hair restorer product, and after its failure rebranded it as a depilatory, right?

Is Jeeves misremembering? Inventing his anecdotes? Lying? And for what?

[siderealscribblings]

"À ta santé!" Glasses and mugs clinked together over the worn, scratched up table in the corner of The Bell and Buckler. The local band was enjoying their complimentary mugs of Mondstadtian wine a little too much and as the warm buzz of alcohol tinged the back of Eponine's throat, she could hear them start to warble out of key. 

Gardes from all over the city favored The Bell and Buckler, not only because servicepeople coming off shift got one round on the house. It was a rustic, cozy tavern run by Loretta, a former musketeer that hung up her spurs after a vishap gnawed her leg off below the knee. Even now, she could be heard thunking behind the bar with her hardwood peg-leg, her old service musket hanging above the bar next to the skull of the vishap that ended her career. 

"A toast!" Marius wobbled to his feet, tugging his garde uniform down and raising his glass somewhat theatrically. "To Miss Eponine who somehow managed to survive her first week on patrol as a member of the esteemed Maison Gardiennage!"

"Hear hear!" A ruddy-faced musketeer named Fantine giggled, thumping her mug on the table. 

"Enough!" Eponine laughed, hiding her eyes behind her hand as Marius made the unsteady climb up on top of one of the barstools. Fortunately The Bell and Buckle was the sort of establishment where inebriated gardes climbing on furniture was nothing out of the ordinary. Barely anyone looked up from their cards or dart games as Marius launched into a speech that could barely be heard over the din of conversation. 

"Our beloved Lady Furina is safe from all manner of capitol terrors!" Marius proclaimed, spilling some foam into his bowl of stew as he raised his tankard. "Including runaway poodles, misguided tourists, and clingy little aristocrats!" 

"Off the chair!" Loretta shouted, turning a nozzle of cold tap water on Marius and knocking him flat on the floor. "Or I'll call the garde on you!" 

"The garde's already here!" A patron called, drawing a roar of laughter from the half-dressed Maison Gardiennage agents packed into booths and crowded around billiards tables. 

"I'll call the Iudex then!" Loretta countered, grinning as a dreaded ooh wafted through the crowd. "Miss, I hope you've an iron liver if you plan on drinking with these two." 

"I think my liver will be fine," Eponine chuckled, unable to be too embarrassed. Here she was, barely twenty-five and already appointed to the Maison Gardiennage. Poor girls from Possion could scarcely dream of more and with the money she was making, she would be able to send for her sisters before the year was out.  She had plenty to celebrate and if her new co-workers got a little rowdy celebrating, who was she to stop them? 

"So," Fantine said, leaning on her palm as she turned her attention to Eponine. "How do you find the Court so far?" 

"Oh, it's…big," Eponine said, causing Fantine to snort into her cider. The collection of well-worn wooden cottages that comprised her hometown was nothing compared to the towering spires of the Court of Fontaine. It was one of the last Great Cities that hadn't been obliterated in the Calamity or the ensuing chaos and history hung in the air like mist. She had never felt like more of a bumpkin in her entire life; surely she must've looked like an idiot gaping at everything. 

"You will get lost, but one of the little anklebiters will set you right if you ask them," Fantine said. "The melusine know their way around better than almost anyone these days." 

"A little too well," Marius muttered. "If you ask me-" 

"Oh here we go," Fantine sighed. 

"All I'm saying is that our little fuzzy 'friends' know a lot about a lot of things," Marius said, holding his hands up. "Enough to do damage if they wanted to." 

"The melusine?" Eponine asked. "What damage could they do?" 

"I dunno," Marius said, wrinkling his nose. "They're creepy though." 

"Marius also finds stuffed seahorses and teddy bears creepy ," Fantine sighed, flicking a wadded up napkin at Marius.

"Th-they've got weird eyes!" Marius hissed defensively. "And I swear sometimes I catch one just talking to someone I can't see. Who knows what information they could be carrying out of the-mmph ?" 

"Enough ," Fantine said, stuffing a bread-roll in Marius' mouth. "We didn't bring our new recruit out here to listen to your melusine conspiracy theories; we need to hear her ruling." 

"My ruling ?" Eponine said, watching Fantine and Marius exchange conspiratorial looks. 

"You've been patrolling the Palais and the Opera for a week now," Marius said through a mouth of crumbs. "And in that time, you've seen Lady Furina and the Iudex come and go. Have you had the opportunity to see them…together?" 

Together? Eponine shrugged. "Lady Furina and the Iudex had lunch together yesterday; I can't say I spent too much time with them, but I guess I saw them chatting a little bit." 

Eponine had nearly fainted as she looked up one day to find her nation's god passing by her on the way into the Iudex's office to take her mid-day meal on the terrace overlooking the lake outside his office. She had spent the rest of the day wide eyed and almost vibrating with excitement, so close to divinity that she could still remember the smell of Lady Furina’s perfume. 

"They're always chatting," Marius said with a meaningful nod. 

"Always," Fantine nodded. 

"...yyyyyyyes, I would think the head of our country and her number two would stay in close touch," Eponine said, nodding a little uncertainly. 

"Verrrrrry close touch," Marius said, leaning in and dropping his voice. "So…do you think they're lovers?" 

Read More...

[scribbleseas]

Straight Laced, Chapter III: To Be A False Escort…

Description: After the London’s Royal Ballet company’s prima ballerina goes missing within a string of mysterious disappearances among the ballet’s young ballerinas, you finally get your chance to debut in the leading role, taking on the position’s physical toil and immense social pressure. Although this role was supposed to be your grand jeté into the spotlight, it is quickly complicated when these disappearances catch the eye of Ciel Phantomhive — the Queen’s Guard Dog. He is a captious and shrewd man who also happens to be one of London’s most eligible bachelors.

For enough profit for you to secure your freedom for the first time, Lord Phantomhive double casts you as both his accomplice to solving these dancer disappearances and… his pretend lover. While debuting as London’s new prima ballerina, you must perfect a brand new routine: deceiving all of the nation’s polite society while actively searching for a serial killer — all while being an immigrant from France with a dancer’s reputation.

What could go wrong when you realize this off-stage performance of yours may not be an act at all?

Story Warnings: detailed description of gore, pain, and violence, detailed death, smut & explicit sexual scenes, objectification, prostitution, allusions to under-aged prostitution, smoking, drinking, eating disorder tendencies (food restriction, frequent references to wanting to maintain a certain weight, over-practicing & exercising), infidelity, fake courtship, swearing

Author’s Note: Hi! Thank you so much for your support for Chapter 2. It was so, so motivating to see it and use it as inspiration to get this chapter together for you in a timely manner. I even surprised myself, lol. Don’t hesitate to let me know your thoughts about this one! And any theories you may have about the main mystery! You guys mean to world to me :)

Happy Reading!

- Dan

MASTERLIST

⇐ PREVIOUS CHAPTER | NEXT CHAPTER ⇒

October 13, 1895

The Phantomhive Estate’s Drawing Room

Receiving an offer to play billiards at the Earl of Phantomhive’s manor was the premiere invite. It was more coveted than an invitation to one of his balls or banquets, or even a request to meet in his office since it was the only way to know that you were a part of his inner circle. Phantomhive’s drawing room competition was only made up of his band of closest and most powerful allies.

Ciel preferred to keep this circle limited to the evil number five, including himself. After all, there was no use in quantity over the quality of service one might offer him. There was no use in saving face for some obsequious crowd when a smaller group could achieve the same and more.

At the established age of 20, Ciel hand-picked his own company, officially doing away with the former Earl’s out of self-preservation— most of those vultures were driven by their interest to unseat him, believing that they could outsmart his developing strategic mind. He had been 13 at the beginning of his reign.

Naturally, their gross assumptions led to the creation of the Phantomhive standard of care, which tended to mean: his staff taking creative license to maim or kill in extreme cases. He preferred to allow his staff to take care of the intricacies and portray while he reveled in his guests’ screams. Ciel imagined they would think better of crossing him, in the future.

Now, he sat in his long wingback chair, overseeing the game before him, half listening to his company, half planning his next turn in his mind. There were no good shots— he’d have to skip again. It was Ciel’s policy to never shoot unless he was certain he’d score. Taking useless turns that achieved little more than nothing was not in his nature.

“…Just can’t believe that ballerinas are dropping like flies and the Yard has all of us on a gag order,” Adam Blackwell, the Oxford Gazette editor-in-chief, grumbled. Originally from the States, it took time for Ciel to adjust to his blunt way of speaking. Although Blackwell seemed as though his blunt exterior made him unqualified for Ciel’s entourage, it was his influence on widespread media that made him a valuable partner. Blackwell cultivated Ciel’s publicity and in return, Ciel provided him with breaking stories, invaluable insight, and his endorsement. Now, the journalist’s words caught Ciel’s full attention.

Ballerinas ‘dropping like flies,’ the Yard’s ‘gag order.’

Ciel wasn’t aware that Her Majesty wished to keep these deaths quiet — nor why that would be. It wasn’t as if there would be a public outcry as a result; most perceived ballerinas as crass, vain, and promiscuous. Hardly a half step better than average prostitutes. They were every noble wife’s worst nightmare, given that their husbands were willing to empty their fortune to tousle their bedsheets with them, rather than remain faithful as their wedding vows outlined.

Now that he personally knew the Royal Opera House’s prima ballerina, Ciel understood where the stereotype emerged from. He’d never met a woman who smoked cigars or disrespected him with such insistence. He wrinkled his nose in remembrance of the permanent cloud of smoke that Y/n was so attached to and the tantalizing way she presented herself.

Of course, the worst of it was that Y/n was almost attractive enough for it to work if Ciel weren’t a gentleman.

Almost, he felt he needed to emphasize.

“Phantomhive,” the Viscount of Tiverton, Gabriel Giffard said his name impatiently. He chalked the tip of his cue stick, slightly wary of meeting Ciel’s eye. “Blackwell reminds me; I needed to tell you that there has been talk,” he ran the cue chalk over the stick’s end until there was a thick blue film over it. “Amongst the barons.”

“Talk?” Ciel asked, his back straightening in the chair. Giffard, like him, inherited his viscounty much too young as a result of a tragic accident. Only the carriage crash that killed his parents was likely a genuine accident as opposed to the purposeful Phantomhive estate inferno that killed Ciel’s parents and left him a sacrifice for a deranged cult.

Now, Giffard was known for secrets, pulling them from all ranks within British society: royalty, nobility, and the low class. How he came across them, Ciel was unsure, but he knew better than to dismiss his words. “Of what sort?”

“Lord Chancellor spotted you in the foyer de la danse at the Opera House. Socializing, bidding…winning said bid,” Giffard said facetiously, already knowing that it was true because his informants would never dare lie. The Viscount’s magnetic attitude was what tended to draw people in so close— it was what made strangers turn to friends after mere moments into an exchange. Ciel wasn’t quite convinced by the facade, but Giffard was plenty helpful.

Of course, it was Lord Chancellor. The man had nothing better to do than gamble his limited fortune away and cover his shame with undignified, craven, sexual acts with any ensemble member he could afford.

“Bidding? Excuse me?” Samantha Marias Delgaudio asked her lightly freckled features twisted into a look of animated surprise. “Phantomhive? Bidding? What?” She repeated the words as if the English made no sense to her, taking a soothing drink from her wine glass. Per the norm, it was filled with her favorite rosé, a brand that Ciel had shipped in for her. He didn’t have much of a taste for wine, but she visited often enough to warrant the special shipment. Moreso, Carlo Gancia was a longtime family friend to the Phantomhive family.

“Explain, Phantomhive.” Her hazel eyes squinted at Ciel, zeroing in on him the same way a sharpshooter would.

“Samantha—” Ciel started. She reminded him of a younger Madame Red, his late aunt, Angelina Dalles. Samantha had the same red hair, a dimpled smile, and easy humor.

“Sam,” she rolled her eyes, tired of the correction. She was the second-youngest daughter of Police Lieutenant Peter Delgaudio, close right hand to the Scotland Yard’s Police Commissioner, Arthur Randall. Randall, the supercilious bastard, was not fit for retirement quite yet. In another five years, hopefully. Sam wasn’t one for formalities, but so long as she refrained from using Ciel’s first name, he’d tolerate it. Besides, she tended to let a few facts about the Yard’s current cases slip, updating him on their progress, incoming cases, and loyalties within the force. Fred Abberline was too subservient for such a service, but Sam enjoyed the dramatics of being Ciel’s insight.

“No, Sam. You need to tell us why the Police Commissioner refuses to let me report these murders!” Blackwell interjected. “I could care less about where Phantomhive decides to—”

“Oh, be quiet, we can talk about that later,” Sam snapped, always one to get to the point. She turned her attention back to Ciel. “Why were you in the dance foyer?”

“The rest of the word is that you won the right to be Y/n Y/l/n’s only subscriber,” Viscount Tiverton added, adding to Sam’s outrage. He sent bitter looks to Sam and Blackwell, irritated that they interrupted his gossip.

“Who? The lead dancer?” Sam demanded.

“Prima ballerina,” Blackwell corrected, pedantic when it came to using the correct terms.

“That means the same thing!”

Ciel sighed, resigned. He should have paid more attention to the rest of the dance foyer’s guests and disguised himself better— one of the bidding noblemen recognized him. It was a risk to so much as admit that he was pretending to be Y/n Y/l/n’s patron to this tightly-knit group. The more people knew the more likely Natasha Gusev-Wood could realize that her company was under official investigation. She and her husband were still people of interest.

Besides, it was harmful for Ciel’s reputation to be a subscriber to a ballerina. He was the Head of Phantomhive; someone of his stature needed to be courting a proper lady, not soiling sheets with a coquettish, sultry dancer. He needed to change the narrative. Soften it. Make it slightly less scandalous.

“I am courting her,” Ciel replied simply, lying through his teeth. “My bidding serves to pay her rent and keep other men away at the same time.”

“No, you must be investigating her,” Richard Clerkenwell interjected, finishing his shot. He was always one to choose the worst time to enter the topic at hand.

Clerkenwell knocked the blue striped ball — the 10 — into a hole, the cue ball stopping on the edge before the pocket. The hit cleared the way for Ciel to knock solids one and six in. He handed the cue stick off to Sam for her to take her turn, but she merely held it in her hand, unwilling to let the subject drop while she played.

Clerkenwell was an Underworld arms dealer, running a minor branch within his family crime syndicate. The group dealt in weapons manufacturing and minor drug dealing, harmless enough to remain under Her Majesty’s radar with Ciel’s aid, but prominent enough for Richard to be a strong ally for the favor. Richard provided Ciel’s house staff (his undercover guards) with the latest in arms and weapons for a strong discount.

Unfortunately, that meant Clerkenwell had the finest criminal instinct out of the four of Ciel’s close acquaintances. Although he hadn’t seen through Ciel’s lie entirely, he didn’t miss the mark. Enlisting Y/n as his eyes and ears within the dance company kept her close. Ciel would be remiss to assume she was entirely innocent. After all, no crime can be committed with a motive.

There was no better motive than forcibly removing the competition— Ciel would know. Still…Sebastian’s words still held strong truth within them, “Miss Y/l/n does not seem to have the constitution of a killer.” The demon seemed comfortable with dismissing the prima ballerina as a suspect, but Ciel was not quite convinced.

“If she were the killer, there would have been no need for her to kill anyone besides Janet Fischer,” Sebastian had said. He had a point. Bloody demon.

“Investigating Y/n? So the Queen put you on this already,” Blackwell assumed. By watching his face, Ciel could see the journalist piecing the headline, the lede, and the rest of the story together in his head.

“No, Her Majesty did not.” Ciel scowled, wishing he could send the arms dealer to an early grave. But unfortunately, that would do more harm than good. If he was going to convince the rest of polite society that he was in love with Y/n, he needed to successfully convince this room first. “The case is in its infant stages. She wouldn’t enlist me without giving the Yard a fair chance,” he glanced at Sam meaningfully.

“That’s a nasty coincidence then,” Blackwell replied.

“I merely attended the ballet and took a vested interest in her,” Ciel struggled to coax his lips into a slight half-smile, a smug look that he imagined he’d give upon sharing vague details about his personal life. It was Earl’s grin, not his own, but that was the look they were accustomed to. The poisonous look of joy on his face normally insinuated that someone was about to take an unfortunate loss. “I am her patron. Becoming so was the only way to ensure the vermin stayed away from her.”

Fine. They will perceive the utter lack of adoration in his face as protective hostility.

Besides, there wasn’t a lot Ciel liked about Y/n to put the expected lovestruck look on his face. Overt frustration and protectiveness were better alternatives, given that he could hardly muster a smile when she crossed his mind. She was everything he disliked about commoners: promiscuous, rude, outspoken. Now he would need to fool his social circle into believing that he was steps away from wedding her.

It wouldn’t be his worst endeavor for the sake of Her Majesty.

“You intend to make her your Countess? Were you not having tea with Lady Howard?” Viscount Tiverton asked.

Tiverton would tell Ciel everything he needed to know at the expense of informing his circles about Ciel to avoid unwanted scrutiny. No one knew who the Earl invited to his billiards games— that information was as confidential as Funtom stocks. Thus, Tiverton would share sanitized versions of the truth, based on Ciel’s strategic allowances. Even still, carelessly allowing this information to ripple throughout the aristocracy was far from ideal. There needed to be a plan. Ciel would need to come to a supplementary understanding with him to control who got hold of the news and when.

Perhaps, that would be a follow-up meeting between himself, Tiverton, and Blackwell.

Caroline Howard was the daughter of the Duke of Norfolk. Becoming a Duke was perhaps the only social upgrade Ciel was willing to make, given that the only title higher than a Duke was a royal, and with such an opportunity, there was no need to explore any lower matches, which would be an available Marquis or another Earldom.

Becoming the next Duke of Norfolk was well within his grasp, given the Howard family’s desire to progress their slow-moving relationship. Or it would have been within his grasp if he wasn’t sacrificing his personal life for the sake of the investigation. Ciel thought bitterly, silently cursing Y/n for her promiscuous reputation, cursing the Yard for being incapable of doing its job without his interference.

“I’ve promised nothing to her,” Ciel stood from his chair, taking the Viscount’s freshly chalked cue stick to take his turn. He lined the cue stick with the ball, taking ample time to ensure that the angle would strike both balls into position. When Ciel was careless, he missed as a result of his eyepatch misaligning his depth perception.

Though if he could kill two birds with one stone— two balls with one turn — he’d be that much closer to winning. Clerkenwell put up a decent fight; he always did. These individuals knew how Ciel detested an easy victory, but in the end, he was the champion.

“You’ve been after a Dukedom for the past two years, Phantomhive,” Blackwell shook his head, scoffing at Ciel’s flawless hit. American businessmen never seemed to understand the importance of the drawing room. Too many waged important decisions and bets on childish games such as these were made here to overlook.

“Such matters can wait. There is no crime in enjoying Y/n’s presence now that she’s caught my interest,” Ciel allowed them to draw their conclusions from those words. He righted himself and handed off the cue stick to Sam. She cursed under her breath, unhappy with where Ciel left the cue ball.

He understood why Blackwell, Giffard, Sam, and Clerkenwell doubted him. No matter how Ciel fabricated the truth, it was still inconsistent. Improbable. They knew he was after a duchy, a noble wife to round out his chessboard. Y/n was a firebrand. She was not a Countess, much less a citizen of Her Majesty, coming from France. Ballerinas existed on stage to all, and backstage to those who could afford it. A prima ballerina did not have what was necessary to fulfill the Queen’s role on his board.

“Regardless, she will accompany me to your upcoming ball, Lord Tiverton,” Ciel sent a chilling smile towards the group, daring them to commentate further. “Now. Let’s finish our game, shall we?”

No one protested.

October 14, 1895

The Royal Opera House, Outside Y/n’s Dressing Room

Y/n was due to update Ciel on the information she uncovered since their discussion at the breakfast table. In an effort to keep their partnership inconspicuous, he offered to meet her backstage and escort her to the hovel that she called her townhouse. Prior to meeting her, he explored it with Sebastian, searching for clues of her being their killer, but most of her drawers contained pointe shoes of various quality, assorted sewing tools, clothing, packs of cigars, and wine. The only items that she seemed to make an effort to hide were expensive gifts from subscribers, and given that none of the victims’ fortunes were touched, there was no reason to assume the killer worked for a financial agenda.

Ideally, Ciel would have waited for Y/n inside her dressing room and allowed her director to presume they were having relations while they were truly going over information Y/n gleaned.

Though now that Ciel was claiming to be courting her, his plans needed to chasten and publicize. What was supposed to insinuate a sordid backstage affair, now needed to become the Earl of Phantomhive bringing his romantic interest roses after her flawless role in the show and escorting her home. Keeping her safe and well-provided for was the job of a false escort, he reckoned, despite having little to no romantic experience.

More to the point: their interactions needed to become much more inconvenient. Having to bring himself to the Opera House every other evening was already quite a burden but now, he needed to spend public, perceivable time with Y/n to make his story plausible. And rake his reputation through the mud while he was at it.

Blackwell and Tiverton’s words could only help so much. At the very least, Ciel’s blatant power was enough to keep any opposition or vitriol from his enemies private.

“Lord Phantomhive!” Natasha Gusev-Wood stopped in her tracks upon noticing him standing outside her star’s dressing room. He’d purposely paid an excess amount of money to avoid the dance foyer because the scene was too grotesque to subject himself to every other evening. (Watching sexual exploitation felt abhorrently close to participating in it.) When Ciel wrote a check for three times the amount he did to become Y/n’s sole patron, Natasha seemed to understand what he was conveying.

She briefly dipped her head as a gesture of respect. Her eyes were grey-ish blue. They were catlike as they surveyed him, pausing the bouquet of roses in his hands. Half of Natasha’s weight seemed to depend on the long cane at her side, the leather handle perfectly molded to her grip. The customization suggested that she needed walking assistance for quite a while.

“Mrs. Wood,” Ciel replied, making minimal effort to match her enthusiastic greeting. He returned her singular nod.

“Y/n should let you in a moment, I’ve only just helped her out of her costume,” she gestured to her single handful of tulle, her free hand grappling with what seemed to be an ensemble member’s outfit: a simple white number with the swan headpiece. Her Russian accent hardened her English. Uncomfortable with Ciel’s continued silence, she spoke again: “Our costume director has her hands full with preparations for The Nutcracker.” He assumed she was attempting to explain why she, the director and choreographer, was dealing with tasks as mundane as dressing and undressing her company.

“I understand,” Ciel opted to use the time to ask her about her husband, William, while he had the chance. Supposedly, the man was in France, scouting new ensemble members from the dance school Y/n grew up in. The timing was ironic to Ciel: about ten dancers are found dead, and the Opera House’s owner decides to search for a replacement, ignoring the issue altogether.

It was more than ironic. It was suspicious.

“How is William, these days?” As irritating as small talk was, it was often quite insightful.

Natasha answered as he expected her to. Her full lips pulled into a smile, her laugh was bashful. “He is set to return from Paris quite soon; he was looking for an understudy for Mother Ginger, given that the role is rather precarious,” she said, not expecting him to understand the reference. “But he is well!” Ciel couldn’t sense any half-truths or hesitation in her words— either she was a trained liar, or she was being honest.

“Do send him my regards,” Ciel requested, looking to build the foundation needed to have a meeting with the man. He needed to gauge him and decide whether or not the rumors surrounding William were true…

“Come in, Lord Phantomhive!” Y/n’s falsely cheerful voice called from the other side of the door, but Ciel didn’t move. This exchange was too pivotal to the investigation for two reasons: one, Natasha was the key to a meeting with William, and two, this would be the first time Ciel admitted to courting Y/n to anyone besides his allies. Natasha would spread the word, and her inevitable recount of the interaction would need to have the warmth necessary to be believable.

“Y/n will adore those flowers. Have a lovely night,” Natasha smiled. She picked up her cane, readying herself to step away, but the fabricated vulnerability on Ciel’s face must have stopped her. It was the same look Sebastian used when he needed someone to let their guard down— Ciel had plenty of time to learn to replicate it, over the years. Beyond that, he was a rather gifted liar.

“Do you truly think so?” Ciel asked breathlessly, sparing a look at the door to suggest that he was worried about Y/n listening in and another to his flowers to insinuate that he was rethinking them. “I…wish to begin courting her.” It was a flawless construction of a well-guarded man showing a crack in his armor for the sake of love. It was storybook. Ciel fought the feeling of bile rising in his throat.

Natasha’s mouth fell open, unsure of how to reply. “I-…they are beautiful. A man can never go wrong with classic red roses,” she managed through her surprise.

“I appreciate it. Thank you, Mrs. Wood,” he surrendered a smile.

“Of course, Lord Phantomhive,” Natasha nodded stiffly, her own knowing smile reflecting his. “I wish you the best of luck,” and with that, she continued walking to her original destination, newly armed with the freshest gossip to occupy the streets of London.

Once she was out of earshot, Ciel replied to Y/n. “Ready yourself to leave. I am escorting you to your home for the evening,” he raised his voice so she could hear him.

To his surprise, Y/n didn’t argue with him. Instead, she emerged from her dressing room after several moments, a small bag slung over her shoulder. As Natasha did, her gaze locked on his flowers before she looked at him with uncertainty. “Ciel…” she questioned, her eyebrows knitting.

“We should take our leave,” Ciel suggested, before lowering his voice, leaning downwards to address her more privately. There was a relative bustle backstage, but luckily, the ensemble and stage crew kept away from the prima ballerina’s dressing room, for the most part. “You will have your explanation in the carriage. Take this bouquet and hold onto my arm,” he muttered, righting himself and offering her the bouquet. It was a small cluster of red roses bound together by a thick brown ribbon, a touch of baby’s breath and greenery accented the sea of crimson petals.

Y/n held the bouquet in one hand and her other hand laced around Ciel’s arm hesitantly. She wiped away every hint of confusion from her face and replaced it with a satisfied half-smile, her back straightening with confidence, a sureness at his side. Bringing the flowers to her nose, she smelled them and sighed with gratitude. She was a better actress than Ciel originally thought.

“I adore them. Thank you, Lord Phantomhive,” he had to look away from her smile, avoiding it, in the same way, someone might avoid staring into the sun’s rays. He made a distinct effort to focus on her choice of addressing him.

“Sebastian is outside with the carriage,” he explained, leading the prima ballerina towards the exit near the dance foyer, allowing assorted ensemble members and their patrons to catch a glance at himself and his supposed courtship partner. If Natasha served the purpose he hoped, they all would have known to keep a particular eye out for them.

The moment they settled into the carriage, their respective placid expressions dropped like masquerade masks.

“Ciel, what happened?” Y/n demanded. “What happened to, ‘we are not courting, Y/n. We are not friends, Y/n,’ hm?” she impersonated him, lowering her voice to create a husky caricature of his. Her British accent was horrifying— she butchered the language enough in the first place, but this was a step further.

He certainly expected her to react this way, given that she was the personification of the theater itself. She was all drama, all theatrics. That was part of what made her so insufferable to him, a logical being.

To you, I am Lord Phantomhive! He wanted to demand, but at this point, he was growing weary of the correction. Briefly, he wondered if this was how Sam felt, constantly correcting people’s forms of address.

“Explain!” Y/n ordered just as the carriage began moving.

Ciel released the inhale he was holding. He shouldered off his black overcoat and folded it across his lap, suddenly uncomfortably warm without the chilly autumn air to keep him cold. The desire to explain himself was nowhere to be found. He rarely needed to do so! He was the Earl of Phantomhive!

She was no one in comparison; the bastard child of a maid and her employer, raised in a dance school out of convenience for her parents. A means for them to hide their shame.

Even so, Ciel found himself looking for the best way to inform her of what had happened in the past day.

“A Baron recognized me in the foyer de la danse. Acquaintances of mine questioned me about the matter, and I needed to keep my cover intact to ensure that no one heard word of my investigation.”

“Our investigation,” Y/n interrupted, causing a flare of annoyance to set Ciel’s lips in a pursed line. He took a sharp inhale, willing the argument to die on his tongue.

“Fine. They now need to believe that we are courting— for the good of our investigation,” Ciel said dryly, tilting his chin in a show of silent defiance, daring her to raze him further.

Y/n laughed, the outburst erupting out of her like a firework, bright and full of color. Her smile was lopsided and more genuine than he’d ever seen it, even if she was laughing at him. Her knees pulled together as she doubled over, acting as if the magnitude of her amusement may as well kill her.

He rolled his eyes and put his frustration towards squeezing his jacket.

“You told your friends that you have taken a liking to me?” Her shoulders shook with the effort that it took to reign herself in.

Ciel found a new reason to dislike her: her captivating smile, the way it made the corner of his mouth twitch because he confronted the hilarity of the situation.

Only, Ciel disliked that reason. Instead, he decided to focus on his existing ones: her selfishness, the sultry attitude of hers, her stubbornness. The fact that she originally deemed her ‘too busy’ to bother talking to her co-workers. She considered herself busy? Ciel ran an Earldom, multi-million corporation, and worked as a private investigator for Her Majesty.

That was why he had little to no interest in finding a wife, after Elizabeth. To this day, he struggled to take that utter embarrassment in stride.

“I had no choice. Admitting that my intended goal was to be your patron would have dealt near-irreparable damage to the Phantomhive name,” Ciel continued, finally sobering her riotous grin. “Telling them that I was acting as your patron would have—”

“Made them realize you were investigating my company, yes,” Y/n rubbed at the bridge of her nose, kneading the amusement off of her face. “I understand. But the thought of us in courtship is…” inconceivable? impossible? inane? “…Unbelievable,” she settled on. “Me and you? We could never hope to…” she thought out loud, trying to piece the logic together.

“—I’ve already set it up,” Ciel cut in. They were always interrupting one another. “All that is necessary is your consent, and I would be willing to compensate you for the additional time, as well.”

“Additional time?” She repeated.

“Noble courtship is a full schedule. You would be accompanying me to social events and public outings…” Ciel explained, expecting her to decline. He sounded like Sebastian, the careful way he debriefed potential wives for Ciel’s purposes.

As she puzzled over his words, the carriage came to a stop. Her head jerked towards the window, peering out of the glass as if she considered the possibility of Ciel holding her hostage at his estate until she consented. He could never. She was too irritating for anyone to hold hostage— even the most committed crime syndicate would surrender her. Ciel imagined Clerkenwell putting a bullet between her eyebrows for nothing more than to make her stop talking.

“Come up with me,” Y/n ordered, opening the carriage door and letting herself out before Sebastian could.

She didn’t give Ciel the opportunity to decline the offer. Instead, he followed her to her front step and watched her unlock the rusted doorknob. He shared a nod with his butler before stepping through the threshold and following the ballerina up the old stairway, since she rented out the first floor of the townhouse to a single mother and her daughter. He forced himself to take in her living space with interest to avoid suggesting that he’d been there before her inviting him inside.

The second floor was made up of two main rooms: Y/n’s bedroom and her common room, a multi-purpose space that housed a small kitchenette and an apothecary cabinet pulled against one side of the room with two couches and a coffee table pulled towards the side. Several large mirrors and a barre occupied the free side. Every surface was filled with assorted clutter and a thin sheen of uneven dust— Y/n cleaned some areas more than others.

She told him to take a seat and wait while she showed herself to her room to change out of her leotard, tights, flats, and the ratty sweater that she used to cover herself against the cool night. Reluctantly, he obeyed, ignoring the vague scent of smoke and her floral perfume. A variety of wine bottles lined a section of the shelves, but there were only two wine glasses next to them. The only visible food seemed to be a half loaf of bread, unopened jam, and crackers.

Even Ciel’s servants ate more and lived in better conditions than Y/n did— three well-rounded meals and quarters in his guest house, respectively. She had to have relied on her income from suitors and the ballet to maintain even this standard of living.

Minutes later, Y/n re-emerged from her bedroom. She scrubbed her face clear of any makeup and changed into an oversized night shirt and short drawers, leaving her legs exposed to her upper thigh. Her shirt was practically see-through— it was white and it fell an inch past her hips, resembling a night shirt he would wear to sleep.

Not only was Y/n all smoke and drama; she was also the very personification of scandal.

Yet, Ciel’s objection to her clothing died on his tongue. Instead, he cleared his throat and adjusted his trousers, since he had yet to sit on one of her dilapidated couches. The throw rug covering the wooden floor didn’t seem any better, nor did the wooden chair hastily pulled next to the kitchenette counter. Everything in the room seemed crowded towards one side to make room for the mirrors and the barre on the far wall.

“I need to darn my new shoes,” Y/n started sifting through one of the drawers in the apothecary cabinet. “We can discuss our courtship while I do,” she picked out a curved needle, thread, a thimble, and scissors, effortlessly sitting herself onto the rug. She crossed her legs in front of her, causing her shirt to hike up and expose the short drawers.

“So you intend to follow my plan, then?” Ciel said the question like a statement.

“I wish to avenge my friends. I will do what I must,” Y/n expectant eyes watched him blankly before turning playful, understanding why he had yet to touch any of the furniture in her home. A class difference. A world’s worth of differences between the conditions they believed were livable.

Being in this townhouse made Ciel’s skin crawl. He almost expected to catch a disease from being there. And yet, he didn’t show himself out.

Y/n’s smile was lopsided, hiding a sting of hurt smoothed over by immense self confidence. Ciel knew that look rather well. “Sit…unless the Earl of Phantomhive is only able to sit on fabric created by the best of silks and threads, sewn together by the best of—” the expression Ciel gave her was frustrated to make her laugh, cutting off her own sardonic words. After giving the area across from her a long look, Ciel sat himself down, cringing at the thought of the grime beneath him. The dirt. He was nearly certain these trousers were new, and now he’d need to tell Sebastian to burn them along with the rest of the evening’s ensemble when this was all over with.

“Has anyone told you how insufferable you are?” Ciel asked, watching her pull thread through the eye of her needle. She tied off the thread and cut the excess, paying his insult little to no mind. In fact, she almost seemed amused by his comment.

“I know no one has told you how insufferable you are,” she snorted derisively. “If they did, you would not be so…you.” Her threaded needle flew in and out of the satin shoe and she seemed to be stitching around the perimeter of the flat bit on the tip. The area the ballerinas balanced on. Y/n worked the needle precisely, almost as rapidly as Ciel’s mother used to embroider.

“I happen to do rather well for myself,” Ciel thought of the ever-prosperous Funtom Corporation, his extensive list of solved cases for Her Majesty, and his winning streak in chess. He did more than well for himself; so much so that there was hardly room to grow. The only way for him to improve his status would be to marry into a dukedom or a marquis, but that was so far into the future, he could hardly imagine it. Instead, Ciel decided to focus on more pressing matters: “what have you heard over the past two days?”

“Well,” Y/n paused to think. “No one else has missed rehearsal…but I learned some more of the patron’s names. For a dancer who…passed, and current company members,” she listed out names she remembered. For the most part, she caught wind of the most long standing subscribers, but only found the name of one patron of a murdered ballerina.

“Eliza O’Malley and Lord Alexander Huntington— Mr. Wood said she quit the company shortly before Janet died,” those particular names were the next step in the investigation, surely. Lords Tiverton and Huntington were throwing a joint ball at the end of the week to commemorate their corporation’s grand opening. It was some sort of soap manufacturer, amongst other luxury items for the washroom. There was nothing particularly special about the company’s product, but Ciel imagined it would do well because the Viscounts advertised it as luxury.

“I know Lord Huntington,” Ciel told Y/n about his and Lord Tiverton’s company and upcoming event. “We should make an appearance together. See if he knows anything of what happened to O’Malley,” the Yard found the ensemble dancer in pieces, her body partially pecked apart by vultures two blocks away from her home. The Undertaker suggested she died of a heart attack due to hard drug use. If she weren’t the eighth ballerina to die over the past month, the Yard would have ruled it an accident.

“If it is one killer, they are certainly well read and dedicated, my Lord. This is a wide variety of means to kill a human,” Sebastian had mused, likely amused at the thought of how fragile the human body is.

Ciel could tell Y/n wanted to ask what happened to Eliza, but she hesitated, leaving the question on her pursed lips. It was one of the more gruesome ends involved in this case. Ciel opted to spare her— there was little he detested more than crying. It was a waste of time and energy.

Not all of the bodies have been recovered yet, either. Ten merely commemorated how many ballerinas have been reported as missing. But the six of them found have all been dead.

“For one person to have the ability to kill these dancers in so many ways insinuates that they can directly manipulate their victim’s schedules,” Sebastian continued. They were looking for an authority figure. Someone with power— like a common patron, or William Wood himself. The man needed to return to London, and soon.

“We would need to attend after my performance,” Y/n tied off her stitch and repeated the process for her other pointe shoe.

“Fine. Have you attended a noble ball before?” Ciel asked, unsure if commoners held such events. Though, one glance at Y/n’s home suggested they did not.

“Yes, I have,” she didn’t need to explain, because Ciel had an idea as to why she would attend one. Subscribers with twisted morals were more than eager to show off their beautiful belongings, even if a living human qualified as such a thing. “Rather boring affairs, are they not?” Y/n asked rhetorically.

He reminded himself to write Y/n a larger check. No one deserved to sell their body to live— even if Y/n was, by far, the most frustrating person Ciel had come across in his life. That foyer saw to years long of demeaning abuse, no matter how content she pretended to be.

The insignia on Ciel’s torso burned as a reminder. The Mark of the Beast. He forced himself to swallow down the forming lump in his throat.

At least they shared a mutual disdain for the events, though he suspected for different reasons.

“You nobles are extremely rude,” Y/n claimed, wrinkling her nose as if she’d consumed something bitter. “You all grow up in such…lavishness; I would think your personalities would be slightly more pleasant for it.”

“And what exactly makes you believe you are so much more amicable?”

“Should you not know, Ciel?” She feigned innocence, batting her long eyelashes at him before her expression shifted to be more serious. Her pivoting needle paused; she was nearly halfway around the perimeter of the outer sole. “But truly: I may not be the kindest; but I am honest. I will never lie to you.” She expected him to reciprocate the sentiment, but he was reluctant to.

Ciel was a liar. A manipulator. Someone whose lies almost exclusively served his self-interest. Promising the truth to Y/n would be the equivalent of a wasp promising not to sting. Ciel could, of course, try. But if the situation demanded him to protect himself, he would. Repeatedly.

“Then I will do most everything in my power to do the same,” Ciel said cautiously, choosing the assemblage of words strategically. He didn’t promise— Y/n wouldn’t appreciate it, if she understood him the way she clearly thought she did.

Y/n’s smile was small. It held a note of melancholia, but there was a new appreciation in her eyes when he met them. She straightened her back and extended a hand, allowing her free one to hold her darning needle. “Then I look forward to our courtship,” she said, referring to their partnership and the particular way it needed to manifest. An extremely public relationship.

Still wearing his gloves, Ciel took her hand and gave it his business shake. He could feel her palm’s warmth through the leather. Her grip was firm like a nobleman’s.

“As do I.”

[justforbooks]

In 1941 a secret British radio station called on Germans to rise up against Hitler. Run by German exiles, it was explicitly left wing. The station’s target audience was “the Good German”. Its broadcasts were serious and idealistic: a ray of light amid totalitarian darkness. They were also a complete flop. With Nazi propaganda rampant, and Hitler’s armies seemingly invincible and on the march across Europe, few bothered to listen in.

It was at this point that Britain’s wartime intelligence services tried a more radical approach. That summer, a talented journalist called Sefton Delmer was given the job of beating the Nazis at their own information game. Delmer spent his childhood in Berlin and spoke fluent German. In the early 1930s he chronicled Hitler’s rise to power – flying in the Führer’s plane and attending his mass rallies – as a correspondent for the Daily Express.

Working from an English country house, Delmer launched an experimental radio station. He called it Gustaf Siegfried Eins, or GS1. Instead of invoking lofty precepts, or Marxism, Delmer targeted what he called the “inner pig-dog”. The answer to Goebbels, Delmer concluded, was more Goebbels. His radio show became a grotesque cabaret aimed at the worst and most Schwein-like aspects of human nature.

As Peter Pomerantsev writes in his compelling new study How to Win an Information War, Delmer was a “nearly forgotten genius of propaganda”. GS1 backed Hitler and was staunchly anti-Bolshevik. Its mysterious leader, dubbed der Chef, ridiculed Churchill using foul Berlin slang. At the same time the station lambasted the Nazi elite as a group of decadent crooks. They stole and whored, it said, as British planes bombed and decent Germans suffered.

Delmer’s goal was to undermine nazism from within, by turning ordinary citizens against their aloof party bosses. A cast of Jewish refugees and former cabaret artists played the role of Nazis. Recordings took place in a billiards room, located inside the Woburn Abbey estate in Bedfordshire, a centre of wartime operations. Some of the content was real. Other elements were made up, including titillating accounts of SS orgies at a Bavarian monastery.

The station was a sensation. Large numbers of Germans tuned in. The US embassy in Berlin – America had yet to enter the war – thought it to be the work of German nationalists or disgruntled army officers. The Nazis fretted about its influence. One unimpressed person was Stafford Cripps, the future chancellor of the exchequer, who complained to Anthony Eden, the then minister for foreign affairs, about the station’s use of “filthy pornography”.

By 1943, Delmer’s counter-propaganda operation had grown. He and his now expanded team ran a live news bulletin aimed at German soldiers, the Soldatensender Calais, as well as a series of clandestine radio programmes in a variety of languages. Delmer’s artist wife Isabel joined in. She drew explicit pictures showing a blonde woman having sex with a dark-skinned foreigner. Partisans sent the pamphlets to homesick German troops stationed in Crete.

Others who made a contribution to Delmer’s productions included Ian Fleming, the creator of James Bond, and the 26-year-old future novelist Muriel Spark. Fleming worked for naval intelligence. He brought titbits of information that made the show feel genuine, including the latest results from U-boat football leagues. Many Germans guessed the station was British. But they listened anyway, feeling it represented “them”.

Pomerantsev is an expert on propaganda and the author of two previous books on the subject, Nothing Is True and Everything Is Possible and This Is Not Propaganda. The son of political dissidents in Kyiv, he was born in Ukraine and grew up in London. During the 00s he lived in Moscow and worked there as a TV producer. Since Vladimir Putin’s 2022 invasion he has been part of a project that documents Russian war crimes in Ukraine.

Like Delmer, Pomeranstev has personal experience of two rival cultures: one authoritarian, the other liberal and democratic. He draws parallels between the fascist 1930s and our own populist age. The same “underlying mindset” can be seen in dictators such as Putin and Xi Jinping, and wannabe strongmen and bullies such as Donald Trump. “Propagandists across the world and across the ages play on the same emotional notes like well-worn scales,” he observes.

In Pomerantsev’s view, propaganda works not because it convinces, or even confuses. Its real power lies in its ability to convey a sense of belonging, he argues. Those left behind feel themselves emboldened and part of a special community. It is a world of grievance, victimhood and enemies, where facts are meaningless. What matters are feelings and the illusion propaganda lends of “individual agency”. Its practitioners bend reality. And – as with Putin’s fictions about Ukraine – make murder possible.

The book offers a few ideas as to how we might fight back. When horrors were uncovered in Bucha, the town near Kyiv where Russian soldiers executed civilians, Ukraine’s president, Volodymyr Zelenskiy, appealed to the Russian people. This didn’t cut through. Most preferred to believe the version shown on state TV: that Moscow was waging a defensive fight against “neo-Nazis”. It was a comforting lie that absolved Russians of personal responsibility.

Ukrainian activists hit a similar wall when they cold-called Russians and told them about the destruction caused by Kremlin bombing. Many called relatives in St Petersburg and other Russian cities to explain they were under attack. Typically, their family members did not believe them. “They really brainwashed you over there,” one said.

The activists had more success when they mentioned taxes or travel restrictions – issues that spoke to the self-interested “pig-dog”. Pomerantsev suggests that Delmer’s approach worked because he allowed people to care about the truth again, nudging them towards independent thought, while avoiding the pitfall of obvious disloyalty. He brought wit and creativity to his anti-propaganda efforts as well, turning his radio shows into bravura transmissions.

Pomerantsev makes an intriguing comparison between der Chef and Yevgeny Prigozhin, the Russian oligarch who in summer 2023 staged a short-lived rebellion against Putin. Two months later, Prigozhin died in a plane crash. The oligarch was a charismatic figure who roasted Russia’s generals for their incompetent handling of the war. He used earthy prison slang. It was this ability to communicate in plain language that made him popular – and a rival.

The book muses on whether Delmer was ultimately good or bad. Are tricks and subterfuge justified in pursuit of noble goals? It concludes that the journalist’s greatest insight was his understanding of his own ordinariness, and how this might be exploited by unscrupulous governments and rabble-rousing individuals. “He was vulnerable to propaganda for the same reasons we all are – through the need to fit in and conform,” Pomerantsev notes.

Daily inspiration. Discover more photos at Just for Books…?

[labuenosairesfrancaise]

Chateau de la Grifferaie

This time I'm sharing what I consider one of the most beautiful houses in France.

You will have 13 rooms distributed between the 3rd and 4th floor, 10 bathrooms, one great room, 2 family rooms (one with a daily dinning), a formal dinning room, a billiard room, a gym, and I added a library.

The mansard floor is intended for service and nursery rooms.

The ground floor has the renovated kitchen and plenty space for you to define/decorate.

You will need the usual cc (TheKim07, SYB, Felixandre, Harrie, Anne, Stereo, TGS, among others).

Thanks for following and for your support!

Enjoy!

DOWNLOAD: https://www.patreon.com/posts/87463515?pr=true

(Early access: 9/9/2023)

[simcamelia]

Status dos Mods

Mods de Gameplay

The Mood Pack Mod - atualizado para a v1.671 em 05/03/2024

Dine Out Reloaded - atualizado para a v3.38 em 29/02/2024

Frogs and Insects are Pets - lançamento em 03/01/2023

Entertainer Career Overhaul - atualizado para a v2.5 em 29/02/2024

Writing and Writer Career Overhaul - atualizado para a v2.9.9 em 22/11/2023

Talents & Weaknesses - atualizado para a v0.91 em 27/02/2024

Mooncasters - lançamento em 24/06/2022

Babysitting Gigs - atualizado para a v1.4 em 18/07/2023

University Application Overhaul - atualizado para a v5.7 em 29/02/2024

Unicorn Mod - atualizado para o patch em 28/02/2024

First Impressions - atualizado para a v1 em 01/03/2024

Custom Nuptials - atualizado para a v2.7 em 29/02/2024

Mini-Mods

Occult Preferences Mod - atualizado para o patch em 28/02/2024

More Resolutions - atualizado para a v1.4 em 27/09/2023

More Useful EA Lot Traits - lançamento em 31/03/2023

Sulani Events Calendar and Flyer Notifications - atualizado para a v3 em 01/09/2023

New Traits Pack (More Traits) - lançamento em 10/05/2023

Better Ghosts! - última atualização em 24/01/2023

Assign NPC Jobs - última atualização em 18/04/2023

Occult: Lore & Order - última atualização em 18/03/2023

Science Baby Tweak - última atualização em 01/11/2023

Life Notes/Personal Bios - atualizado para o patch em 01/03/2024

More Dormant Occult Traits - última atualização em 27/10/2022

Milestone Cheats - última atualização em 28/04/2023

Craft Horse Treats with Vet Skill - lançamento em 03/08/2023

Functional Lot Traits - atualizado para a v2 em 26/12/2022

Strength and Weakness Preferences - última atualização em 24/07/2023

Cinema Lot Trait - última atualização em 09/09/2023

Choose Infant Rug - lançamento em 31/10/2023

Aesthetic Traits - lançamento em 25/10/2023

Laundromat Lot Trait - última atualização em 08/11/2023

Mods de Interações

Contextual Social Interactions - última atualização em 01/11/2023

More Kisses - atualizado para a v1.5 em 13/10/2023

Toddler Conversation Expander - última atualização em 21/03/2024

Slow Dance for Kids - atualizado para a v1.02 em 16/03/2023

Passionate Romance Mod - atualizado para a v1.5.4 em 28/02/2024

Autonomous Break Ups and Divorce - última atualização em 19/07/2023

Autonomous Go Steady and Propose - última atualização em 19/07/2023

Ballroom Dance Mod - atualizado para a v2.5.6.4 em 16/03/2023

Funeral Service Event - última atualização em 14/09/2023

Neighborhood Stories: Marriage - atualizado para o patch em 06/12/2023

Cute Romance - atualizado para a v6h em 29/02/2024

Objetos Funcionais

Funtional Vending Machines - lançamento em 16/04/2021

Little Chefs Toy Kitchen - atualizado para a v1.0.3 em 28/02/2024

Kids Trampoline - atualizado para o patch em 28/02/2024

Bus Upon a Time - atualizado para a v1 em 04/01/2023

Remove Hats & More Indoors - atualizado para incluir a tradução em 16/01/2024

Billiard Mod - atualizado para a v0.3.2 em 06/02/2024

[ssukidesu]

Inextricably Knotted (an Inukag + Jane Eyre AU) [Chapter 7]

Summary: Kagome Higurashi was orphaned as a baby and raised by her cruel aunt until the age of ten, after which she went to school and learned the art of service and self-suppression. Now eighteen, Kagome takes a job as the governess of Shippo, the young ward of the great and mysterious Lord Inuyasha Taisho.

But as Kagome gets to know her bemusing master, a ghost seems to haunt his estate, hinting that there is a long-lost secret hiding on the third floor.

(Read on AO3)

tag list: @heynikkiyousofine @xanthippe-writes

Chapter 7: Portraits and Wings

The presence of guests at Jidai-Ju Hall persisted into the following weekend. The days were not much changed—Shippo received most of her attention, even though she received very little of his. Despite his fascination with the goings on of the company, Kagome managed during most lessons to wrench some productivity out of him.

During the evenings, Kagome would sit as she was bid among their company silently. Her presence clearly disconcerted everyone—except him who ordered it, as he instead preferred to ignore her altogether. Kagome would pretend not to notice as she read lines of whatever book she chose to accompany her that night, with varying degrees of success. 

The group would often play games—cards, billiards, darts, guessing games, and so on. Tonight—which was a misty Saturday night that hinted at spring's approach—it appeared the game of choice would be charades.

It was Mr. Taisho’s idea. “Let us test the skill of our silence,” he had proclaimed dramatically as he came into the parlor last, as he always did. The room bustled in anticipation, and during the commotion, he walked over to grab a book off the shelf adjacent to Kagome’s seat. 

“Will you play?” he asked simply, gaze flicking to her face for a brief moment.

Surprised by the address, Kagome only shook her head.

To her relief, he did not insist. He returned to the heart of the room and declared himself the partner of the woman of the hour. 

Lady Yura sported a fine dress of pale blue, floral buds of beads and lace decorating the sweetheart bust and form-fitting sleeves. Her short hair was distinctly straight, and a dainty white ribbon worked to frame her face as a headband. The other women in the room donned similar, though less remarkable, attire. The men wore typical vests and shed their coats once the fire’s heat permeated the room. Mr. Taisho shared the fashion. 

The other pairs were named: Kagura with Ayame—the young demoness with brown hair—and Naraku with Kouga—the unfortunate recipient of Ayame’s too-frequent affections. In the last few days, Kagome had learned that both Ayame and Kouga were wolf demons, and Naraku and Kagura were some other type seemingly unassociated with a specific animal. But whatever they were, they were indeed kin of some sort, though the precise kind evaded Kagome still.

With the parties ready, Mr. Taisho opened the book, which housed charade prompts. “Who would like to go first?” he asked.

“I think we should, dear Inuyasha,” said Yura. “Someone must show everyone how it’s to be done.”

As Kagome’s grasp of the nuances between each relationship deepened, she found Yura’s air of confidence surprisingly fragile. The woman’s beauty proved unmatched; however, whenever her desired devotee did not fully satisfy her with their attention, her expression became strained, and her smile fabricated. And worse for her, Kagome thought for certain that Mr. Taisho noticed, too.

Perhaps more than anyone else, Kagome watched her master as he navigated through the weeds and waves of whatever bog this party was proving itself to be. But he did not miss a beat—every joke, he built upon masterfully; every flirt, he returned with charm. And yet, Kagome was becoming less and less convinced of the truth of her master’s affections for the woman. 

When she first arrived, Kagome bristled and flinched at Mr. Taisho’s smiles and trifles with Lady Yura. But Kagome’s observations—once she gained the courage to allow them—revealed that their companionship was quite hollow. 

And this was not merely the hopeful opinion of a naive girl. Kagome watched herself just as carefully, and she was confident that she was seeing with the undeceived eyes of a self-controlled woman: indeed, Kagome saw that Lord Inuyasha was going to marry Lady Yura—for rank, for family. But not for love. 

And this game of charades, with all of its coquetry and costume and comedy, was nothing more than the ironic pastime of the larger parody between the players. 

What frustrated Kagome the most was that, where Lady Yura failed to genuinely please Mr. Taisho, Kagome saw where she would have succeeded. Lady Yura was all too upfront: where she brushed the master’s shoulder, a subtle smirk would have proven more effective. Where she feigned bashfulness, a statement of distant confidence would have won. With the certainty of a woman, Kagome now knew what her heart had felt from the beginning: it was she who understood Mr. Taisho best. He was not to them what he was to her. They were akin to each other—more than any pair with so different experiences could be. Kagome was certain that she and Mr. Taisho shared more sympathy in a single passing glance than Yura could manage wrangling out of an entire evening.

And with all of this, Kagome remembered his words to her so many months ago: You’ve never felt jealousy, have you, Miss Higurashi? Of course you haven’t—for that would require that you experience love, first. When the day finally comes that you feel the prick, you’ll learn that one can only feel jealousy when the person usurping your love is truly better than you.

Kagome indeed did not feel jealous of Lady Yura. But the heartbreak was no easier. Perhaps if the woman had been a lady of grace and kindness, of wit and wisdom, Kagome would have been capable of blessing the union with all her heart. But it was the inferiority of Lady Yura—her inability to earnestly charm him—that kept Kagome discontented with her impending union with her master. Because he was going to marry her anyway.

Thus, she sat silently in her seat and watched as Mr. Taisho and Lady Yura, now dawning half-complete costumes relating to whatever their prompt was, enacted some sort of ceremony. The lady wore a white curtain about her body over her dress, and she draped a corner of it over her head and face like a veil. Mr. Taisho had restored his black coat to his person and added his top hat to the mix, and he filled his hands with the contents of a now-vacant flower vase and offered them to her on bended knee. 

“Proposal!” cried Ayame.

“Love,” said Kouga.

“Groom!” tried Kagura.

“Bride,” concluded Kouga.

Naraku sat absently, seemingly uninterested in the game.

The two actors signed that Kouga’s latest answer was the first word in the phrase. They then disappeared behind the makeshift curtain to prepare their second performance. In the interim, Kagura leaned over to Naraku from her place beside him for a curt whisper, most likely a rebuke for his lack of enthusiasm. He met her scowl with equal fervor. 

When Mr. Taisho and Lady Yura returned, their appearances had changed. Some Middle Eastern fabric had been retrieved and fashioned into scarves, which draped about the lady’s head and the master’s neck, respectively. The pair proceeded to mimic the Genesis meeting of Rebecca and Eliezer at the well—another allusion to matrimony. The only things missing were the camels.

“Bridewell,” said Kouga pridefully, and the players assented. Kagome smiled at Kouga’s obvious self-satisfaction, and she flicked her gaze to Mr. Taisho, who also seemed amused by his friend's joyous victory. Her master’s dark brows quirked, and his lips twitched into a subtle smirk. 

It was then the turn of the two gentlemen, who halfheartedly managed to perform “French Ballroom” with an abundance of proud jabs at the invoked inferior country. Ayame and Kagura somehow enacted “Aurora Borealis”, the revelation taking many hard minutes of struggle from all parties.

The game ended around midnight. Kagome could not have guessed the time, as she felt so far from sleepy that she wondered if she would get any rest at all after retiring. She kept picturing Yura in her blue dress, fingers pressed against Mr. Taisho’s shoulder as they conferred together during the other pairs’ performances. 

Kagome would not paint tonight, the mess seeming burdensome, but she could make do with the colored pencils that Lady Kaede had brought her alongside the paints. She began at her own desk, her draft sketches swirling and scraping on the first white page. But soon, the window above her space was abandoned by the moonlight. She had only one candle to spare, and though it had another couple of hours remaining, it was not enough. 

It was likely around one thirty. Everyone would be asleep, she assured herself. Kagome gathered her materials—the pages pressed between her arm and torso and the pencils clenched in her right fist—and gripped her candle. She departed from her room and turned down the westward hallway. She came upon her desired place—a large bay window that would bear moonlight for another hour or two. Its cushioned bench was large and would fit her easily. She settled herself, placed her candle on the sill, and continued her work. She completed the final version of the first piece—its flawless face, shining black hair, and pale blue dress filling the page masterfully—only thirty minutes after; she filed it beneath her new page and began working again. She would not use color for this one.

Kagome did not know how much time it took, but she was soon finished with her own portrait. She raised and compared the two—submitting to her purpose in drawing them. Lady Yura’s was titled: “An Accomplished Lady of Rank.” Her own, which brought a cringing curl to her lip and an emptiness to her chest, was titled: “A Governess, Disconnected, Poor, and Plain.” Kagome exhaled, satisfied with her efforts in humbling her recent illogic.

“What are you doing up at this hour?” inquired a voice from beyond the raised portraits.

She managed to smother her squeal of surprise. Lowering the papers and inhaling deeply, she admired Mr. Taisho’s curious face and ruffled sleeping clothes—his white shirt again open near the collar, exposing the top sliver of his muscled chest, and loose red pants—akin to his red coat, she noticed. As frightful as his appearance often was, there was a beauty to his ruggedness, to his long hair and wrinkled shirt, to his broad shoulders and strong legs. But she was forgetting herself—forgetting already the lesson to which she had dedicated the last few hours.  

She cleared her throat and brought her legs closer to herself. “Just drawing. I couldn’t sleep. And you?”

“I walk the grounds sometimes, when I’m restless. Such is part of my duties as lord here, anyway.”

“I see.”

A beat. “Can I look at them? Your drawings.”

Kagome swallowed hard, panic swelling in her chest. “I don’t know…”

Her hesitance brought a challenging look to his face. “Come on, where’s the harm? Have you made something horrible? Intimate, perhaps?”

“All my works are intimate.”

“Yes, but none have been so much so that you’ve hidden them from me before.”

“And how would you know that?” she shot back. “If I’m hiding some, by necessity you would know nothing about them.”

His smile was wolfish. “Ah. An admission?”

Kagome scowled. “A criticism of logic.”

Air left his nose in a puff. “Do you mind if I light a cigar? You’ve your creature comforts; I’d like my own.”

“I don’t mind,” she said.

He sat himself on the other side of the bench, situating his legs so that they mirrored hers. Kagome suddenly felt bashful about her slipperless feet. He seemed to notice them simultaneously, and she slid them backwards to hide them somewhat under her night gown. He made no comment, himself having bare feet, opting instead to place his cigar between his lips and pull a match from his pocket. The movement jostled the sleeves of his shirt, and Kagome noticed a single thin bandage wrapped around his forearm—exactly where he had been burned. Kagome would have asked him how it was possible that he had not fully healed after so many weeks, but the words would not form. The match’s fire erupted passionately when it scratched against his flint, then soothed to a subtle flicker. Once its duty was fulfilled, Mr. Taisho snuffed the flame. The first ring of smoke obscured his piercing gaze like a ghostly curtain.

Kagome peaked back down at the portraits in her lap. She pulled Yura’s out from beneath her own and studied it. What would be its effect on her master? The curiosity came upon her like a muse. “I don’t mind if you see this one,” she said finally, pulling it out and handing it to him.

He looked surprised at her acquiescence, his golden eyes flicking down to the paper only after he was assured by the certainty on her face. A moment passed before he spoke. “A beautiful picture of Lady Yura. You’ve captured her essence, certainly.”

Her toes curled beneath her dress. “But do you like it?”

His eyes flicked up at hers for only a second, a strange lilt in his brow forming at her inquiry. “As well as I like the person whom it depicts.”

Kagome puzzled at the riddle. She didn’t dare question his meaning further with words; instead, she felt a sudden courage unfolding in her ribs. “If I show you the other one, would it receive a more detailed review?”

Inuyasha smiled, then released a puff of smoke from his pursed lips. “If you wish.”

Wordlessly, Kagome unsheathed the second page from her lap and handed it to him. His clawed fingers took hold.

The silence was unbearable. She bit her lip and shrunk down to hide herself between her shoulders and behind her knees. Her elbows dug into her ribs like a clamp.

When he looked up, the reproachful disappointment on his face made her feel her own adolescence more than she had in years. When he spoke, his voice was slow, calculated. “The one of Yura was nothing short of perfection. This one, on the other hand… I must withhold my praise.”

She could have thrown up. Averting her eyes to the window, she focused on the moon as it peaked and wove through wispy clouds. “Why?”

“Because this is the only work of yours I’ve seen that houses a lie.”

Her head whipped back to face him. His look was serious, if not a little irritated—probably mimicking her own. “And what lie is that?”

Inuyasha retained his harsh expression, but he leaned forward till his elbows draped over his knees. “You dishonor yourself.” He brought a hand to brush an orphaned lock of hair from her face, reminding her that this was the second time he’d seen it down. His voice quieted for their increased proximity. “Do you want to hear my criticisms in greater detail?”

Kagome felt her jaw clench. She remembered the purpose behind her two drawings, and she could not help but feel that he was spitting on her efforts of self-preservation. Her words were clipped. “You may find fault with it, but a piece cannot be criticized for reflecting an artist’s thoughts and feelings. Such is the nature of art.”

His eyes seared into her own despite their focus out the window. His voice carried a firmness that reminded her of a lost friend. “A romantic attitude. But while an artist may claim immunity to mechanical criticism for such reasons, they cannot claim immunity to criticism of the perceptions themselves that produced the piece. No one is ever immune to being critiqued for their thoughts and feelings. In fact, it is these things alone that are worth criticism. All else—social rank, familial history, physical characteristics…” he paused, finally succeeding in regaining her strangely watery gaze, “…are arbitrary. Wasn’t it you who said you cared far more about judging me for the characteristics of mine you couldn’t see?”

As if struck dumb, Kagome only nodded. He tilted the page to make it visible to her, and she relented, leaning forward to join his scrutiny.

He spoke slowly, “Here, you’ve intentionally emphasized the slightest trace of defect and neutered every point of expression that gives life and light to your countenance. You’ve drained your color, dulled your eyes. Your lips have been dried out. Your lashes thinned. I have not once seen this expression on your face; even now, as annoyed as you are with me, your cheeks are alive, your eyes large with lighted emotion. Your lips…” His gaze traced her physiognomy as he spoke. Reorienting himself at her eyes, he concluded, “And you’ve left something out.” 

When he didn’t elaborate, she bemoaned her curiosity and took the bait. “What have I forgotten?” Her voice sounded strange to her own ears.

His smile was half tender, half menacing. “Your wings.”

Kagome couldn’t help the tension-relieving laugh that escaped her upturned lips. Whatever he said about the color in her face, she was sure it was growing now. She folded her arms and situated her unburdened legs to cross beneath her. “My wings are retractable. I save their exhibition for times when they’re needed.”

He was pleased with her play, and he scooted forward to chase her, knees bent and closing in like a cage around her. “Oh? And what sort of times are these? I would love to see them one day.” His posture had him so forward that his face was a mere foot from hers, their lines of sight equal. The smell of his cigar, forgotten in his fingers, curled around her nose.

Kagome’s smile grew, but something in her words pierced her own heart. “Impossible. If I’ve unsheathed them, I’ve done so for flight. I’d be gone long before you could notice.”

His eyes carried a strange emotion. “And what of my traps? The invisible nets I’ve splayed out in the sky to catch runaway fairies?” At the word catch, he again intertwined his finger with a lock of her hair.

“You of all people should know that you cannot confine such creatures.”

“I said nothing of confining,” he began, leaning in even closer. Kagome watched his mouth intently, gaze locked on the points of his teeth past his lips. He continued with a whispered sardonic lilt, “I only wish to study one of God’s highest creations. After which, if she wishes to go, I’ll pack her bag myself out of good will. But only after appealing intently for her permanent residence, and sulking petulantly at my failure.”

Kagome was sure she’d turned scarlet now. She pushed his left knee with the tips of her fingers, breaking his cage. She ignored the rough intake of his breath at the contact. She cleared her throat and said, “I’m afraid I can script our play no further, Inuyasha. I was never one for theater.”

“Nor I,” he said with a grin, seemingly pleased at her using his name. His finger relinquished her strands. After a moment with no response from her, he added, “No more of this.” He dropped both papers back into her lap. “If you’re going to steal my supplies, you’ll be sure to not use them for blasphemy. I order you to fix it.”

“I’d much rather destroy and forget about them altogether, sir. Additionally, though I am your employee, I don’t see the propriety of such commands that have nothing to do with my employment as Shippo’s governess.”

If he noticed her jocular tone, he didn’t show it. “I’m not commanding you as an employer.”

Kagome’s mouth sealed shut. She waited for him to explain his meaning, but he never did, opting instead to kiss his cigar once more. His golden eyes had caught fire, their glow outshining that of the candle on the sill, whose flame flickered from the easy draft and made their shadows sway together. Scared of his elaboration should she invite it, Kagome decided that the late hour demanded her retirement, even if it meant ripping her away from this dreamlike exchange. “As you wish.”

She saw the irritation on his sharp features at her obvious self-censorship. But he let it go. He reclined to his original place leaning against the wall. “You’re tired. If you’ve any desire to sleep tonight, you must go this instant.”

If he meant it innocently, his frustrated expression and clenching fists did not help depict it. Kagome felt a ghostly finger trace up her spine at his gaze, which fought to force its way into the depths of her own to assess its secrets.

Gathering up her things, Kagome stood, holding her papers flush to her chest to hide her unbound breasts which had before been protected by her dress’s loose drape. “Goodnight, sir. You might consider trying to sleep again, as well.” 

“I’ll consider it,” he said, eyes flicking down to her bare feet and the lower half of her shins, now exposed by her night gown. 

Blushing bright, she bowed her head in goodbye. “Till morning,” she said.